


winter kept us warm

by subtext-is-my-division (Quill_Angel)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Canon Typical Violence, Crossover, Drunk snogging, Explicit Sexual Content, Hogsmeade, Internalised Homophobia, Jealous John, Jealous Sherlock, John fantasizes a lot, John is a bit of an asshole, Light Bondage, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mentions of alcoholism, Miscommunication, PWP, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Tension, Teenlock, bottomlock, but he is redeemed eventually, cameos by next gen harry potter characters, crossover- Hogwarts setting, mentions of child abuse, not exactly underage sex, ratings will change, references to abuse/unhealthy relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-09-07 03:59:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 33,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8782051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_Angel/pseuds/subtext-is-my-division
Summary: “As I was saying--” Sherlock says shakily. For some inexplicable reason, his back is pushed up against the wall. John has no idea how that has happened.
  
  “You have some-” John tries to say, but Sherlock barrels through.
  
  “I owe you a favour-”
  
  “Good, I’d like a kiss.”
  
  Sherlock stops talking immediately. John wants to take that back, wants to backpedal like an idiot, blot out his words from Sherlock’s mind. But he also feels dangerous and reckless, wants the shape of Sherlock’s mouth burnt into his own.
  
  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock whispers.





	1. pixie dust

**Author's Note:**

> I AM SORRY FOR MY LONG ABSENCE. IM EVEN SORRIER FOR IGNORING MY WIPS AND WRITING THIS FAIRLY SELF INDULGENT MESS. This also hasn't been proof read. HA. HAHA. HAHAHA. Writing porn helps me get rid of my stress. Also, I repeat: this is pretty self indulgent with very little plot, like most of my fics.

 

 

 

>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Winter kept us warm, covering_
> 
> _Earth in forgetful snow, feeding_
> 
> _A little life with dried tubers._

 

I

 

Sherlock’s eyes are the colour of the winter sky. John stares and stares when he isn’t looking and that’s the first thing he thinks of. Sometimes it looks like the ocean, cerulean and teal and midnight all at once. It’s so hard committing the exact shade of it to memory, it keeps changing with the light, with his mood, maybe? He doesn’t know. All he knows, for sure, is that John looks at him and he gets a funny, gut tightening feeling, a tingle that starts from his chest and runs all the way down to the tips of his toes.

 

Sherlock, with his long curly hair that hangs below his ears and his pretty mouth and his pale skin, and fuck, John isn’t stupid, he knows what it means when his eyes linger on the dip of his waist, the slope of his arse, the curve of his pale neck; he knows with steely certainty. It should scare him, the way his heart drops down to his feet, wanting, wanting

 

It does.

 

And it’s _exhilarating._

 

***

 

He shouldn’t think about him like this, what he’d look like without his robes on, hair messed up from John’s fingers and mouth bruised kiss-red. The sharp intellect of his eyes dimmed down to something dazed and hazy, sprawled out on some surface after John’s had his way with him.

 

***

Of course they meet in the most clichéd way possible. He’s seen him around, mostly getting in trouble with professors or reading in the library. Not that John would go to the library to read. There was an excellent shelf in the back and if you charmed the books to stay just _that way –_ you could hide yourself from anyone, even Pince. He liked snogging girls against the wood, liked to push them against the bookshelves and pin them there, kiss them thoroughly, make them laugh. Hasn’t gotten around to fucking anyone in the library yet, but there’s a first time for everything. Boys too, but those conquests were few and never boasted about.

 

But he’s never spoken to him, not in the seven years he’s been at Hogwarts, mostly because he’d never felt the need to. But he’s walking down the Charms corridor after Quiddich practice and he sees Sherlock on the floor, cursing and muttering to himself while he tries to gather a rather alarming amount of books around him.

John immediately puts his broom on the floor and kneels down to help him. Their skin doesn’t brush, and that’s good, because John doesn’t know what he’d do if he knew what Sherlock’s skin felt like. But Sherlock does look surprised to see him.

“I don’t need your help,” he says stiffly, back straightening.

“I think you do,” John replies, ignoring him and Summoning the books towards them. “You know, you could just use your wand.”

“No magic in the corridors,” Sherlock says shiftily, gathering the books in his arms. His cheeks are slightly pink, and he doesn’t meet John’s eyes.

John raises his eyebrows. “I saw you curse Mckinnon that day in the dungeons. Pretty advanced magic, too.” John looks at the titles of the books. He hasn’t even touched those subjects, and he’s in his NEWT year.

Sherlock sniffs haughtily. “Yes, well. Mckinnon was being an idiot.”  They’re still on the floor. Sherlock has seven horribly heavy books gathered up in his arms. John wants to offer to help him take them back up to the Ravenclaw tower.

“Was he?” John smiles. “That’s a sound reason for jinxing someone’s eyebrows off.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “There’s a simple spell for growing them right back. Even you would know that, if you didn’t let the snitch hit you on the head so many times.”

John stares at him for a few seconds. “Did you just call me stupid?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock says mysteriously, getting up. “Thanks for your help.”

“It doesn’t sound like you’re thanking me,” John observes, handing him a book. Sherlock adds it to the pile growing next to him.

“Probably because I’m not.”

“John Watson,” John suddenly says.

“I know who you are,” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Everyone knows who you are.”

“You don’t know who I am,” John laughs.

“Hmm, no?” Sherlock squints at him, eyes suddenly going hard and calculating. He cocks his head. “Muggle born. Alcoholic, abusive father. He doesn’t like magic. Your mother is dead. You have a sister, muggle, about half your age. She doesn’t live with your father, presumably with another magical family member, someone distant, probably a witch. You’ve just come back from a Herbology class. Charms is your favourite subject but you’re a little ashamed of it, perhaps because it’s not masculine enough, but that’s ridiculous, masculinity and femininity are socially constructed and they have even less importance in a magical community. Personally I think Astronomy and Divination are a load of rubbish, unless you’re a Centaur. Hmm- you used to have a cat. But you let it go- or no- it left. It could have been a kneezle, they’re attracted to witches and wizards by default, did you know that?” He takes a deep breath. “Anything wrong?”

John doesn’t know how to even begin processing that. He’s still stuck on the fact that Sherlock knows about his father when he guards that information fiercely. He works hard and the last thing he wants is to become an an object of pity. “How the hell could you possibly know about my dad? Accomplished Legilimens, are you?”

He swallows back the insult he’s itching to launch at him, but he decides Sherlock doesn’t deserve that.

Sherlock doesn’t even respond to the jab. “I could perform Legilimency if I wanted to but it requires too much effort and I’m tired. And as for your father, I just observed.” Sherlock tells him, citing things like the faded scar on his jaw and the way he wears his watch and-

John shakes his head, reeling. “That was actually…amazing.”

Sherlock stares at him. “What did you say?”

“I said that was amazing, didn’t you hear me?”

“No one’s ever said that before.”

“Gosh, I wonder why,” John replies sarcastically.

But there’s a smile stretching his lips, and Sherlock smiles back at him, tentatively, shyly. He says ‘thank you’ much warmer when John helps him stand up with all of his books.

“Listen,” John says quietly, keeping his wand raised and balancing the books with it. “I’d like it if you kept that information-“ he coughs. “to yourself.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, as if John’s the stupidest person he’s seen. He looks oddly…cute. “Of what use would it be to me if I spewed the contents of your personal life to the vast populace, John? And anyway, when I start deducing things out loud people curse me, or accuse me of dabbling in Dark Arts. Especially Gryffindors, idiots, all brawn and no brain.”

John cracks a smile. “Stereotypes are dangerous.” He ruffles the back of his hair nervously. Sherlock watches him while he does it, like he’s trying to figure something out. “And..er. Thanks.”

Sherlock inclines his head to acknowledge it, eyes sparkling and mouth turned up in half a smile. With some difficulty, he stumbles out of sight, with his books.

 

John stands there for a long time, in that empty corridor, his broom lying down beside him, staring at the spot Sherlock had just occupied. The kid has an awful attitude, he thinks. And he’s smart as hell. It annoys the fuck out of him. But it lights something dangerous and tempting in his belly.

 

That night he thinks about the way Sherlock’s dark hair curls at his pale nape, the curve of his pink mouth. It makes him feel guilty, but he can’t stop fantasizing about it, about manhandling and roughing him up, kissing the propriety out of him. It would be _so_ easy to fuck him into incoherence.

 

***

 

John knows. John _knows._ Sherlock can feel it with a certainty. He can’t be imagining it. He’s too smart to imagine it. He must have blushed too much or something yesterday, let slip something disastrous, and John must know by now.

Alright fine, he knows, so what? It’s just a stupid crush. Sherlock will get over it anyway. Soon. Even though it’s been…what? Three years? How old is he? Fifteen? He’ll be sixteen soon. So, yes. Somewhere around that. He’ll get over it, he has to- because boys like John- popular, handsome, Gryffindor, Quiddich captain boys like John- are not interested in boys like him. Probably not interested in boys, full stop. Sherlock will just have to forget about it, the sooner the better, and the best way to do that would be to avoid John Watson completely.

He’d done it fine these last few years but the oaf just _had_ to come barreling down that corridor and even go so far as to _help him pick up his books._ As if Sherlock wasn’t too far gone with this silly crush already, no, John had to initiate an actual _conversation._

And of course Sherlock can see it.

 

John smiling at him crookedly across the Gryffindor table. He nearly upsets the milk jug. And drops his fork. He has to dive under the table to retrieve it and then his wand slips out of his robes and rolls outside and he bangs his head on the underside of the table and _what is this idiot doing to him?_

It isn’t fair, that John can look at him with clear blue eyes of his and have Sherlock go weak in the knees, a nervous flutter in his belly. Once Sherlock thought he walking down a deserted corridor until he found John snogging someone up against a wall, his hand up her skirt. He stood there for almost a minute, watching while John kissed her neck and fingered her right in the middle of that corridor. She was moaning softly, head thrown back against the wall, hips rolling gently. He made an undignified squeak when they broke apart and saw him, probably sensing someone looking at them. The girl from Slytherin called him a pervert while she pulled her skirt down, furious and blushing, but once John saw it was only him, his lips spread into a slow, deliberate smile.

Sherlock turned around and fled, but for a week afterward he couldn’t stop thinking about that smile; he imagined John smiling down at him like that while he was on his knees or on his back and-

 

He doesn’t know what to do with the way his body is lighting up, sending desperate signals to his cock.

 

Masturbation is unsatisfactory because all he can think about is strong hands pushing him down or spreading his legs apart and—

 

He comes with the terrifying, exhilarating thought of John pushing him face first against a wall and fucking into him from behind.

 

Well, shit.

 

***

 

It doesn’t help that John looks at him oddly, that Sherlock can feel his gaze linger on him sometimes. He doesn’t know why he does that, because although Sherlock knows he’s aesthetically pleasing if you look at him in the right light, he can’t tell why _John_ would care…?

 

…?

He couldn’t possibly…?

John isn’t…

 

Is he?

No.

Obviously not.

_(Delete.)_

 

_***_

It’s more than a little depressing that Sherlock is avoiding him. But it’s probably because John has been staring at him like a starved man at a feast and it’s more than a little creepy.

 

But he can’t help it.

 

Sherlock’s probably never been kissed before. He can tell, just by looking at him. The way his cheeks flood with pink whenever he bumps into John, the way he bites his lip- _the way he bites his lip-_ it’s enough to tell John that this is a boy who has barely been touched. And it makes him ache all over, makes his mouth water, thinking of all the things he could to do to Sherlock. God, he buttons his shirt right up to his neck and his mouth is in a perpetual pout of disdain, and all John wants to do is kiss it off.

 

John’s body attunes itself to Sherlock; he only has to catch a glimpse of his dark mop of hair or a profile of his slender frame and his cock hardens under his trousers.

He’s never wanted someone like this, desire lighting up every pore of his skin.

 

***

 

Elliot notices first, when they’re sprawled on the grass, beside the lake, lazy and sleepy after a particularly dreadful History of Magic class.

“Oh mate, you’ve got it bad,” she says, her expression somewhere between surprise and pity.

“What?” he snaps, turning away from where Sherlock is leaning against a nearby tree, doing something with his fingers that is making the flower in front of him open and close its petals.

She only raises an eyebrow and mutters, “I wish someone would look at me like that,” before closing her eyes again.

 

The sad part is that John knows exactly what she means.

 

***

Even Albus notices, when they’re in the library and he’s helping John with Astronomy. “Stop staring at him and pay attention,” he taps his wand against his shoulder.

“I’m not staring at him,” John defends himself.

“Mmm, yes you are, and clearly pining. Didn’t think you played for the opposite team.”

John stares at him. “Shut up. I’m not pining.”

Albus snorts. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Watson. I know pining when I see it.” He gaze lifts above John’s head and his eyes grow soft and fond. John knows exactly who he’s staring at. “I used to be an expert.”

John turns around and sees Scorpius Malfoy sifting through books. He looks up when he sees John and Albus staring at him and he smiles widely, lifting his fingers and waving at Albus, and then blows him a kiss when he makes sure no one is looking.

“Tell him,” Al advises John, still grinning at Malfoy.

“Yeah, that’ll happen,” John mutters, and goes back to his homework.

***

 

 

He tries hard to get Sherlock out of his system, but no matter how many girls he shags he still thinks of his silver eyes at night, his long slender legs, things that he didn’t think he’d be helpless to notice, but he is.

He slips his hand under a girl’s shirt to cup a plump breast, still wondering what it would feel like to run his hands over angular planes and hard angles instead of soft curves. Sleek blonde hair threads through his fingers but John fantasizes about crushing inky black curls instead.

John sees Sherlock the next time they have Quiddich practice, and it’s difficult to concentrate on finding the snitch when he knows Sherlock is sitting somewhere in the pitch. He has his face buried in a book and he’s bundled up, blue scarf around his neck and gloves and a woolen hat pulled down over his forehead.

John swerves around the pitch, looking for the snitch and shooting commands to his team mates to hit the bludger harder or pay attention to the Quaffles, but his gaze keeps drifting to Sherlock. After two weeks of avoidance...he decides to show up here?

 

John is never going to catch the snitch at this rate.

 

He doesn’t need to though, because ten minutes later it starts pouring, and Elliot falls from her broom and John decides to call the practise off for the evening. His team mates come down, mud splattered and annoyed.

“Good game,” he tells them, because it was. Except him and his inability to catch the snitch because of his fixation on Sherlock Holmes.

“Tomorrow morning instead?” Elliot offers, massaging her ankle. There’s a smirk playing on the corner of her mouth, her bright green eyes sparkling

“Is it broken?” John asks curtly, gesturing towards her foot.

“Nothing Pomfrey can’t fix,” she assures him, still smirking, and he tells Brown to take their beater to the Hospital Wing.

“Tomorrow at six,” he notifies everyone else, ignoring El’s knowing look. He clears his throat.  “See you lot then.”

She mouths _use a condom_ at him while she puts her arm around Brown and limps back up to the castle. He rolls his eyes and turns away.

In a few minutes they’re all making their way to the castle, and John hangs back until most of the team has vacated the pitch. That’s when he grabs his Cleansweep and kicks off the ground until he’s hovering outside the Ravenclaw booth.

Sherlock is sitting cross legged on one of the seats, reading by wand light. He has a stack of three or four more books next to him. John waits for almost a minute until Sherlock sighs, snapping his book shut and looking up.

“John,” he says. He’s still holding on to his wand. His face is flickering with soft yellow light.

“It’s very cold to be reading outside,” John observes, looking down at the rain-soaked pitch and then grinning at Sherlock.

“You’re the one flying in it,” Sherlock answers, leaning back against his seat.  “What do you want?”

“Did you watch our practise?”

Sherlock crosses his legs. “No, I was reading.”

John flies into the booth, shaking his hair all over Sherlock. Sherlock blinks repeatedly, looking offended and surprised. “Stop- stop it,” he mumbles, raising his wand and siphoning off the water. John is still smiling widely, wiping the water off his face. He drops his broom on the ground and wiggles between the rows until he’s finally next to Sherlock.

“ _Notable magical poisons of the 16th to late 19th century,”_ he reads one of the spines. “Bit morbid, that.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and taps his wand on the stack. It vanishes. “Light reading,” he says under his breath.

“Are you planning to poison someone?”  
Sherlock glares at him in a way that suggests it’s him. John winks, and Sherlock looks even more furious, even as he blushes, silver eyes flashing.

“People who annoy me,” he answers evenly.

John laughs, and sits down next to him. “If by annoy you mean _charm my pants off.”_

Sherlock purses his lips, eyebrows raised skeptically. “Oh, is that what you’re doing? Charming me?”

“Depends. Do you like being charmed?” John cocks his head and smirks at him, and Sherlock stares at him for a few seconds, swallows. His gloved fingers curl into his trousers- they’re woolen, a navy-and-silver eagle knitted into the material.

“I’m not charmed very easily,” he finally replies, voice trembling a bit at the end.

 

John’s smirk widens, he lifts his hand and runs his index finger slowly up the side of Sherlock’s neck, just the tiny exposed bit of skin that isn’t covered by his scarf, just managing to wipe off the tiny droplet of water that has collected there. John wonders if it’s been dripping all the time, collecting at the dip between his collarbones, down the back of his neck.

“Oh, no worries,” he says mildly. “I can get very creative.”

He can feel Sherlock’s breath speed up in response to his touch, and isn’t that fucking sexy, that Sherlock sounds like that with the barest brush of his finger tip?

“You’re a bit wet,” John tells him, and his fingers creep up to his nape, and to his delight, it is wet- Sherlock’s curly hair is damp, sticking to his skin. John applies the lightest pressure, and Sherlock’s eyes flicker a bit, as if he wants to close them- lean into John’s touch. He’s rigid right now, eyes wide, the tiniest tremble in his body, and John knows that he just needs a bit of a push- and he’d go limp and needy under his hands. It makes his mouth water, god, what is he _doing?_ John can’t deny he’s thinking about it, and that the thought of Sherlock like that makes him hard.

He takes his hand away, and Sherlock, whose eyes had gone almost half-closed, opens them all of a sudden. He sits up straighter.

“Doesn’t hold off rainwater properly unless it’s been charmed,” John says, as if he hadn’t just been thinking about fucking Sherlock into oblivion a second ago. Sherlock’s cheeks are flushed with pink, his nose pink, and he’s not sure if it’s from the cold or arousal. John can’t get around it- he’s seducing Sherlock, and Sherlock- even if it’s just a bit- is being seduced.

Sherlock clears his throat, looks up uncertainly, blinking. “Er-yes. Yes, yeah. I know. Doesn’t. Impervius.” He reaches behind his neck and rubs a bit. Probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it. “I- I should. Go. The rain’s let up. Test. Tomorrow.”

Sherlock stands up hurriedly, knocking a chair over. He barely looks at it. He’s wrapping his robe tighter around himself. His scarf is open at his neck-probably been shaken loose by all of John’s pawing.

John stands up too, takes a step towards Sherlock so he’s right in front of him. “Am I to assume-“ he starts, and takes both ends of the scarf so he can wrap it properly around Sherlock’s porcelain neck. Sherlock freezes again. –“ that you meant, that you should go, because the rain’s let up, and you have a test tomorrow? Only, you didn’t quite utter a proper sentence.”

Sherlock swallows. Hard. “Yes. That. That is what I. Ahem. Said.”

John gives the blue wool a final tug. “How coherent of you.”

Sherlock’s an inch or two taller than him so he looks down at John. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “I’ll just--”

John lets his lips curl up in a crooked smile, and he steps away from Sherlock and summons his broom, all the time looking at Sherlock, who is currently dithering slightly, unsure of what to do with his limbs. John has several ideas, all of them wildly inappropriate, so he just says, “It would be easier and faster if I just gave you a ride.”

Sherlock lips part. “W-what?”

“On the broom, Sherlock. A ride on my _broom._ ” He frowns, mocking. “What did you think I was talking about?”

This time Sherlock gapes. “I- I wasn’t-” he looks absolutely horrified. “I knew you were referring to your broom.”  
“Hop on then,” John tells him, and throws a leg over his Cleansweep.

“I could just--”

“Sherlock, I’m only being logical. You like that, don’t you? Logic? I bet it calms you down.”

Sherlock shifts from one foot to another. “Okay,” he decides, and hesitantly walks up to John’s broom, settles himself behind. “I’m not- I’m not very good at flying,” he admits cautiously. John can feel his knee barely brush his thigh.

“Figured that out for myself,” John smiles. “It’ll barely take a minute, don’t worry. You might want to hold on, though. You’ll fall off.”

Sherlock’s hands come to lightly rest on his shoulders.

John smirks to himself, and kicks off the floor. He might have done it a bit too harshly, because Sherlock inhales sharply and slides down the broom until his front is plastered to John’s back, knees bracketing John’s hips.

“Shit,” he whispers in his ear.

“Hold on tighter,” John tells him over the sound of the wind, and Sherlock’s arms wrap around his waist.

And John has had many fantasies over a short period of time- wild, pornographic unrealistic fantasies, fevered and rushed, hot skin and hotter kisses- but none of them have felt as spectacular as this, really. Sherlock’s lithe body curls around him and he can feel his warm breath in his ear, skin thrumming against him. The air is rainwashed, cold, crisp- it smells like wildflowers, and Sherlock smells even better. He wants to touch Sherlock everywhere, slip his hands under his shirt to find the damp skin underneath, push his fingers into the heat of his mouth- but even if he never gets to do that, he’ll treasure this memory, always- the feel of him around him, his sudden intakes of breath, the litany of curses he whispers in his ear, and the way his arms tighten when John makes a sudden swoop.

“This is actually-nice,” Sherlock says breathlessly.

“Flying is the best feeling in the world,” John agrees, and turns his broom around to make a round of the pitch. “You can ride on my broom any time you want.”

Sherlock is silent for a second. “Um.”

John bursts out laughing. “Shit, I didn’t mean it like that. Shit.” He laughs again.

“You make a lot of double entredes when you’re speaking, don’t you?”

“I’m a natural,” John replies. He rises higher- higher, until the air is even colder and his breath frosts before his eyes. Sherlock shivers a bit behind him. He slows the broom down to a cruise, trying not to make any sudden twists. Sherlock is quiet, his arms a little looser around his middle.

“I never like it when I do it alone,” he says, his voice low.

“You’ve ridden with other people before?” John can’t control the sudden burst of jealousy at the thought; Sherlock touching someone else, like this.

“With my brother, once, but that’s it,” Sherlock says, and John is relieved. “Can’t quite control my broom. My father bought me one in my third year, he used to be a brilliant player in his day. Keeper, I think. My mother too. She was Seeker.”

“Like me,” John observes.

“Yes, like you,” there’s a hint of a laugh in his voice. “They really did want me to be play. But I was terrible. But at least I could get my broom off the ground. Mycroft was too pudgy for even that.”

“Mycroft Holmes is your brother?” John asks, surprised. He remembers the boy, ginger haired and hook-nosed, fifth year Slytherin prefect and then Head Boy. Brilliant and slimy as hell, if he recalls correctly. He’s glad Sherlock can’t see his face.

“A cross I have to bear,” Sherlock confesses mournfully, and then places his chin on John’s shoulder as if this is no matter at all. John tries his hardest not to move- he doesn’t want to surprise him- Sherlock is like a shifty gazelle at the best of times. He doesn’t think Sherlock has initiated a touch on his own, ever. John gets a light whiff of his shampoo- something poncy and fiery.

“I have an annoying sibling too.”

“Mmm, I remember.”

“Oh, yeah. You sussed that out anyway.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“What else can you suss out?”

‘That it’s very late and we’ll get into trouble if we’re out here any longer.”

“Well, even I could have figured that out. Are you sure you belong in Ravenclaw?”

“Where those of wit and learning will always find their kind?” Sherlock gives a dry chuckle. “Yes, I’m sure. And quite sure you’re a Gryffindor through and though, they’re the only ones who confuse bravery and stupidity.”

“We’re also very chivalrous,” John points out. “And charming.”

“I think you added that last bit by yourself,” Sherlock asserts.

“Creativity is also one of our strengths.”

John can feel rather than see Sherlock rolling his eyes. They fly for a bit longer, until Sherlock sort of tightens his hold and shivers.

“Sorry, I didn’t realise,” John says quickly, angling his broom downward. “You’re not used to this. Come on, I’ll get us down now.” Shit, he doesn’t want to give him a cold.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock murmurs.

They finally reach the ground and John has to be extra careful, making sure Sherlock’s feet touch the grass before he hops off himself. He gets off slowly, but Sherlock isn’t use to flying, so he stumbles when his foot touches the ground. John’s arm immediately catches him around the waist.

“Careful,” he says, right in his ear.

Sherlock gives a nervous, adorable laugh, and John sets him straight. He grabs his broom. “Walk you to your common room?” he asks, hoping Sherlock doesn’t notice the desperate edge to his tone.

“It’s a long walk upstairs,” Sherlock replies. John can’t see much because it’s dark, but he can make out the wild tangle of Sherlock’s hair when he takes off his cap to straighten it, running his fingers through it to push it off his forehead. It falls back in place. He looks pink-cheeked and wind blown- the most gorgeous thing John’s ever had the fortune to look at. “You don’t have to do that.”  
John doesn’t have to, surely, but he certainly wants to. But Sherlock’s had enough flirting for one evening, he thinks, and he drops him at the foot of the spiral staircase instead.

He’s about to go upstairs when he turns around and clears his throat. “I- erm. Thank you. For that.”

John smiles. “For the late night broomstick ride? No, thank _you._ ”

Sherlock decides not to comment on that, sadly, only blushes in response. “Yes, well. I enjoyed that. Anyway. I should- I should go.”

John watches him go, and then suddenly, “Sherlock!” he whisper-shouts.

The sound of footsteps. Sherlock’s shaggy head poking downstairs. “Yes?”

“Goodnight.”

 

Sherlock smiles. A shy, soft smile, and John wants to snog him senseless just because of that smile. He’d do anything, he realises in that moment, to have Sherlock smile at him like that, anything the boy would ask for him. A dragon carcass. A centaur’s brain. His heart.

 

“Goodnight, John,” he says softly, and then he’s out of sight.

 

***

 

By the time Sherlock is dry and in bed, it’s late and Musgrave and Trevor are fast asleep.

He follows soon after, and dreams of broomsticks, flying through the air at dizzying speeds, falling and rolling over on the ground, the weight of a hard body on top of him. Playful bites on his neck, his collarbone. Blue eyes, dark with lust, curious fingers slipping underneath his shirt, into his trousers.

 

***

Sherlock had, indeed, watched a match the next week. It was Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff and Gryffindor beat them to pieces. He didn’t clap because he always felt stupid doing it, but he felt his chest burn in an oddly pleasant way, and his lips pulled at the corners until he was almost grinning. John was being tackled by his entire team.

“Merlin, what’s got you so happy? Were you betting against ‘Puff?” Victor whispers in his ear.

Sherlock laughs. “No.”

Later, he sends a letter to John over breakfast. He doesn’t sign it but he writes with dark blue ink, and doodles a picture of a broomstick that goes flying around the margin of the parchment.

 _Good game,_ it says.

He watches from the Ravenclaw table when John opens it, and the crooked smile John gives him sends an involuntary thrill down his spine. He looks immediately away, of course, and pretends to be interested in his eggs.

 

***

Hope flutters weakly in his chest.

***

 

Quiddich is actually a vastly interesting sport if you ignore that most people who ride the broomsticks are idiots. It has a rich history and  there are exciting, bloody accidents that Sherlock drinks up enthusiastically. In an hour, sitting cross legged in a corner of the library, he has Quiddich theory down pat.

He’s reading a particularly fascinating history of the evolution of the modern-day snitch when he hears a far-off giggle. He rolls his eyes and tries to concentrate. If someone’s shagging in the library again, Pince will catch them and forbid them and send them to detention. Hopefully.

The giggling continues. Sherlock takes a deep breath, breathes through his nose and tries to read.

When it doesn’t stop, he gets up, moves out of the cosy space and looks around. The library is mostly empty, it’s too late in the evening and besides, no one is here when exams aren’t around the corner unless they’re Rose Weasley or from his own house.

He follows the noise just so he can curse whoever it is (detention will be a worthy price to pay) or just telling them to _find a bloody broom closet,_ but he stops cold when he realises who it is.

Sherlock steps back slowly until he’s hidden by a shelf, and no longer looking right at John snogging some red-haired girl against the bookcase, his hands up her shirt.

He leans his back against the shelf, feeling as though he’s ingested a large quantity of Pepper Imps. His chest is burning, his heart is burning, there must be smoke coming out from his ears. He reaches shaking fingers to his hairline and finds it damp with sweat. He’s unsure if what’s twisting his stomach viciously is arousal or envy; they feel the same, smoke and fire.

He takes another deep, shaky breath and calmly goes to the spot where he was reading, picks up his book and stuffs it back into the shelf.

He takes out his wand and considers burning it to a crisp and then burning himself up too, maybe then he’ll stop imagining himself against the wood, panting open-mouthed while John’s hands slipped into his trousers and stroked his cock.

He has to lean his forehead against a cool bit of wall and take deep, even breaths until he’s cleansed the image out. He feels like a voyeur, alone in this library except for John, who is currently fucking some girl a few shelves over.

 

Sherlock wonders idly if John prefers long relationships or if he shags them and dumps them. Except that wouldn’t make him very popular among the female community so perhaps he’s just...good...in bed. The phrase is stupid and juvenile and yet manages to light maddening in his mind; smooth, Quiddich-hardened muscles and clever fingers. Yes, John would have those. Does he enjoy pushing his partners to their knees, or does he take them apart slowly, piece by piece before sliding in? Does he thread his fingers through their hair, pull roughly? Does he like having his cock sucked? Sherlock would do that, he thinks, he’s never done it before but the idea seem exhilarating, and he’s clever, he’ll figure it out. He wouldn’t mind being a one time thing, if only it meant John would touch him.

Wasn’t he trying to calm himself? Sherlock cups a hand over his eyes. To his horror, he realises he has an erection. He could magic it down a bit, he thinks, but Mummy told him long ago never to mix magic with your body and he thinks that’s a rather good idea.

Another giggle shoots through the room and this time it’s softer, with the edge of a moan and Sherlock grits his teeth and something venomous pulls the magic out of his chest as a book shoots out of the shelf in a spray of red sparks.

He curses under his breath and with some difficulty puts its back, what with his trembling fingers and his (now flagging) hard-on.

 

Suddenly he feels very tired. Sherlock exits the library then, prepared to delete whatever he learned about Quiddich and that horrible tableau of John and his female friend.

 

He steadfastly does not think about cold rainwater seeping into his skin and John’s fingers on the back of his neck, swiping it away.

 

***

 

_Sherlock,_

_How are you? I do hope you’re doing well. Going for classes. Not setting anything on fire._

_By the by, midnight broom rides around the Quiddich pitch? Most irregular. Should I be expecting a happy announcement at the end of the week?_

 

_I hope to see you at Christmas._

 

_Yours,_

_Mycroft_

 

Sherlock scowls down at the parchment, and starts to tear it when his brother’s self entitled, fat owl nips him on the ear. Clearly he’s been given instructions. Sherlock swats at him with his hand and he stops, choosing instead to fly above him in lazy, self indulgent circles. His own owl, Athena, blinks lazily at him from her own perch, ruffling her feathers once before going back to sleep.

Still scowling, Sherlock takes his self-inked quill out of his pocket (the Muggle borns use pens, but the magic in the air is erratic at best and sometimes the pen bursts and his parchment is flooded with ink) and writes a delicately worded sentence at the bottom of the letter.

 

_Fuck off._

 

Mycroft probably pays the house elves to keep a watch on him, or charms the professors into telling him what he wants to know. He always did have a way with them. The words in the letter make him more defensive than angry, the implications, the _possibilities_ , but he doesn’t pay attention to the curl of unhappiness in his stomach. If John wanted to be his friend, he would have told him. He wasn’t the sort of boy to hold back on that sort of thing.

 

He’s tying the letter to the owl’s leg when he hears a shout of laughter behind him. He recognizes the shout, but he doesn’t turn around, unsure, suddenly feeling dizzy and confused, like someone’s Confounded him.

The owl looks down at him, bored, wondering if Sherlock’s every going to get on with it, and John Watson also enters the room at that particular moment, sucking all the air out of Sherlock’s chest.

He’s with some girl, ( _obviously,_ Sherlock thinks savagely) black-haired and pretty in a bookish sort of way, glasses hanging in the open vee of her shirt. A gold-and-maroon tie hangs from her neck, so clearly she’s in Gryffindor, and Sherlock recognizes her vaguely from Quiddich matches. Her calves say...chaser. Even if he hadn’t, he would have figured both her house and her extracurricular activities from the length of her skirt and the shape of her fingers.

He turns around to look outside before John notices him, jealousy pressing against his ribs, twisting viciously in his stomach. He keeps running into John and his various conquests, and he’s not sure if it’s just because he’s unlucky or if the universe has a sick sense of humour. Has John been shagging his way through the entirety of the above 16 female population of Hogwarts? He feels a sudden violent urge to curse both of them.

The owl flies away with a great deal of pompous wing-flapping which is presumably what attracts John.

“Sherlock, hi,” he says happily, and Sherlock turns around reluctantly, sighing, only to see him with an arm slung over the pretty girl, the both of them reading from a parchment John is holding up. Something fragile cracks somewhere in the vicinity of his chest and it hurts to see John being so casually intimate with another person- hurts him in an oddly physical way. He never felt the jealousy so intensely before, but somehow John talking to him, defending him, flying him around the pitch- whispers dangerous possibilities in his ear.

 

Sherlock feels his lip curl before he spits out, “Hi.” Before John can reply to that he barells his way out of the Owlery. He sees John’s confused expression right before he leaves and he tells himself he doesn’t feel a thing.

 

It’s wrong, and he’s an idiot, and this crush, Sherlock is rapidly realising, is not so much as a crush than a re-alligning of the stars and self, firewhisky travelling hot and spicy in his veins, fairy dust scattering along his skin and blinding him.

 

It’s sentiment, pure and simple, and Sherlock knows then, that he’s done for.

***

  
  
  
  
II

 

John curses someone for trying to hurt Sherlock. Or trying to, at least. The Slytherin has him pressed face first into the corridor and his wand is at his throat. “I will curse that fucking mouth off your face,” he is hissing when John walks in on them, and John doesn’t think, doesn’t stop, extracts his wand and with sudden, focused intention flicks it at the sixth year. He’s pushed bodily back into the opposite wall with such force that he cracks it. The lantern that’s hanging from the ceiling sways wildly. The boy slides to the floor, unconscious.

 

Sherlock moves away from the wall, turns around, takes one look at him, and glares at John, his eyes glinting.

 

“I didn’t need that,” he says quietly, but his voice is lined with steel.

 

John raises his eyebrows, hackles rising. “I was trying to help.”

 

Sherlock glares, eyes flashing dangerously. “Yes, and you’ll get us both into detention with your ridiculous idea of _help._ I don’t need people saving me.”

John stares at him, not knowing what to say to this sudden acidity.

“He was going to curse you,” he says evenly.  He realises now that they’ve both stepped closer to each other with each argument. He tries to back away.

Sherlock smiles at him, thin and mocking. “I can take care of myself,” he says, and still looking at him, snaps his fingers.

Edwards wakes with a start, coughing.

John turns around to look at him in shock. He turns back to Sherlock, agape. Sherlock gives his fingers a little twist and his wand, seemingly magicked out of his hand flies back into it. He grips it tightly.

“You- you-did you just do _wandless magic?”_ he splutters, looking rapidly between him and the groaning Slytherin. “Wandless, _non verbal_ magic? What the actual-”

“Like I said,” he says between gritted teeth, voice soft and low, “I don’t need you saving me. Edwards, stop staring at us, it’s rude.” He rolls his eyes and looks down at the Slytherin, who is currently looking at the both of them, wide eyed, still on the ground.

“You’re in _fifth year,_ ” he says, accusingly.

“And you are an astounding idiot,” Sherlock says brightly, “Which is a pity, because your House is supposed to be clever.” He uses his wand to summon his bag and the books that have been scattered around the corridor. “Don’t attempt to accost me in an empty corridor again, or I’ll curse your mouth off,” he tells him. Then he swishes his wand in a quick upward movement and the crack mends itself. “Tedious,” he mutters, and sharply turns around and starts walking away. John watches him for a beat, bewildered. What had all that been about?

Edwards makes to say something, distracting him, and more out of annoyance than anything else,  John points his wand at him and calmly mutters _‘Langlock,’_ under his breath. Edwards’ eyes widen and he turns a furious shade of red.

John bends over him and says very softly, “You leave him alone, alright, mate? I’d say I’d curse your balls off, but he’d probably do it faster and better.”

Before he can glare at John more, John leaves and chases Sherlock in the direction he went. The suit of armour against the wall sleepily mutters, “ _Heathens,”_ after him.

He finds him in a minute, about to take the moving staircase, probably to the library- but he stops when he sees him speaking to someone else. Ravenclaw robes, and he recognizes him as someone named Waters- he has Charms with him every Wednesday. John stands there, quite still, his bag slung over his shoulder, unsure of what to name the roaring in his ears, the tightening of his gut while he watches Water lean closer and say something in Sherlock’s ear, fingers brushing over his arm as he does so. Sherlock probably doesn’t even realise that Waters is trying his best to touch him as much as possible.

John considers turning around and leaving, he’s late for Transfiguration anyway, and what does he care if Sherlock wants Waters to shag him through the floor, really, it’s not even his business.

So instead he...clears his throat. Loudly.

Both Sherlock and Waters turn around to look at him, and Waters probably notices something threatening in his expression because he raises his eyebrows and pats Sherlock on the shoulder, saying, “Why don’t I speak to you about it in the common room.”

“I doubt I’ll find it anymore interesting there, but alright,” Sherlock answers him. Waters doesn’t even seem irked by the apathy of Sherlock’s response, seems to roll with it. Sherlock’s eccentricity is probably just more of an asset in Ravenclaw, something to be written down as a quirky facet of one’s character rather than an object of ridicule. When he’s gone, Sherlock finally turns his head and looks at John expectantly.

For a second, John has no idea what to say. He blinks at Sherlock.

“ _What?”_ Sherlock finally snaps. His hair curls just above his eyes, obscuring most of his forehead.

“Waters and you, then?” John finds himself saying stupidly.

Sherlock looks bewildered. “What?” he repeats, frowning at him underneath his shock of dark hair.

“Are you and Waters…” he trails off. Clears his throat again.

Sherlock’s mouth parts, the tops of his cheeks flush. “Why...why would you be asking me that.”

John doesn’t know how to answer that honestly without letting Sherlock know about his hopeless jealousy and the way he wants to twist Waters into a pretzel.

Sherlock heaves a great sigh at his silence and rolls his eyes. “It’s none of your business, anyway. What do you want?”

John stares at him, taken aback. “Have I- have I done something to offend you?”

“Not particularly, no,” Sherlock replies, a hint of coldness in his voice. He lifts his sleeve and looks at his watch. “Is there a point to this conversation?”

John frowns. “I just wanted to tell you that I wasn’t being heroic or anything.” He doesn’t know why Sherlock is being so distinctly catty, the last time he spoke with him they were having a lovely time on a broomstick. “I didn’t- I just wanted to help you. Because no one deserves to be treated like that. I know you don’t need saving. I just.” He pauses, wondering what else to say. Sherlock’s expression is blank. “I just don’t want anyone hurting you.”

Sherlock looks at him for what seems like a very long moment. “Thank you,” he finally says, stiffly, the word sounding ill used in his mouth.

They don’t have much else to say to each other, but John still feels like their conversation is not complete. And he’s already said too much. His chest feels raw.

Sherlock shuffles from one foot to another for a few more seconds until he finally mumbles something about going for class.

“I need to-” he makes eye contact with John and takes a resigned breath. “John, listen, I-”

“No, it’s alright. Go for class. I’ll see you later.” John shoves his wand into his back pocket.

Sherlock shuts his mouth with an audible _clack._

A beat. “Won’t we go the same way? You have Charms now, don’t you?”

“Potions,” John lies. “Sorry.”

 

He turns around and starts walking, and realises they haven’t really spoken about anything at all.

***

 

The same afternoon after Transfiguration, Mcgonagall tells him to stay after class right before he walks out the door. He tells Elliot to go on to the common room. She mouths _nice knowing you_ before exiting the classroom. Still rolling his eyes, he walks up to the desk where Mcgonagall is looking none too pleased.

“Detention,” she says simply, square spectacles glinting. “Arguments can be resolved without resorting to wand to wand combat, Watson.”

He doesn’t even try arguing with her.

He has Quiddich practise after dinner, but they’ll just have to do it without him. He wonders, absently, if Sherlock would go up there this evening too, with his heavy books and wearing his grey woolen cap, the tips of his dark hair curling out from underneath it, the tips brushing over the top of his collar.

 

***

 

John tries looking for Sherlock after he’s done with his classes, but he doesn’t find him. It’s not a surprise to John that if Sherlock doesn’t want to be found, he won’t. He knows the castle better than anyone, it seems, and even if he’s somewhere figuring out what happens when you sprinkle pixie dust over essence of wormwood, John wouldn’t even know.

Elliot is vastly amused by his detention. Rose Weasley and James Potter, both on his team (chaser and Keeper respectively) are informed of John’s actions this afternoon and Potter snorts on his pumpkin juice at the table.

“You were trying to help the bloke out and you got stuck in detention,” he laughs. He high-fives Elliot. Rose just looks at him, calculatingly, one eye brow archly raised.

“Why help him at all?” she asks lightly. She twirls her finger and the spoon in her mug twirls under her ministrations. “Holmes is very clever. Everyone knows that. He would have been able to handle himself.”

“He’s a scrawny little git, that’s why,” Potter answers for her, clearly losing interest in the topic. He eats his steak-and-kidney pie. “One good hex would blow him off.”

Rose continues to look at him. The corner of her lip twitches. John doesn’t like the look in her eye. “No,” she says quietly, knowingly. “That’s not it at all.”

Elliot covers her mouth with her hand to hide her smirk. Her green eyes sparkle at John over her fingers. He looks at both of them, scowls.

“You’re too bloody smart for your own good,” he snaps at Rose.

“I inherited my mother’s brains,” she says simply, and flicks her finger so that her spoon spins out of the mug and does a complicated loop-the-loop in the air before slipping back into her tea. The people nearest to them at their table applaud her. She raises her hand and gives everyone a two finger salute.

“Show off,” John mutters under his breath and gets up. “I have to go for detention now.”

“No good deed goes unpunished,” Elliot calls after him, and John rolls his eyes at her before making his way into the dungeons to Professor Slughorn’s office.  He knocks on the door twice before it’s opened, Slughorn blinking sleepily at him. He stares at John for a few seconds before he suddenly realises why he’s here. “Ah yes,” he says from underneath his moushtache. “Yes- ah. I just told that other boy where to go.” He opens the door a bit wider and stands there at the crack, huge belly expanding as he yawns.

“Other boy?” John frowns.

“Holmes, the Ravenclaw one- hmm, gets into detention a lot, that one,” he laughs. “I do try to speak to the boy several times, but he likes his own space, I suppose. Hmm. Very clever, very clever. Makes a fine potioneer, as well, you know? You, though, you’re very good at Quiddich, eh, Watson? Hmm...which House are you in again, Hufflepuff?”

“Sorry, Professor, but do you mean Holmes get detention too?”

“Why yes, boy, didn’t I say? Classroom down the hall, on the left. You’re to scrub cauldrons,” he yawns again. “Place your wand there- yes-and you may retrieve it after, hmm, two hours. You won’t be able to take it before that, so mind you clean those cauldrons nicely. Well, I’ll see you in class tomorrow, then, Watson, a man needs his rest...hmm, yes…” then Slughorn closes the door in his face. He hears a small click that tells him it’s been locked as well.

Sherlock got detention? _Why?_ That fucking idiot must have tattled about him as well. John has a sudden desire to find the Slytherin common room and wring his spindly neck. Albus would help, he’s sure. Probably hold his arms down.

Still fuming, he makes his way to the allotted classroom, excepting a cold, empty room with a dozen cauldrons looking threateningly at him but instead the room is already occupied.

Sherlock is cross legged on the floor, leaning against the wall and making one of the smaller cauldrons do a tap dance across the floor with his wand. He’s not wearing his robes, only a blue jumper and his trousers, and what looks like white keds. He looks bored to tears and John wants to kiss him.

 

Sherlock probably doesn’t notice him at first, and John leans against the entrance, arms crossed over his chest and watches. He stares at Sherlock a lot, though never quite like this, never quite so closely. Sherlock’s face falls into shadow because of the torch light, which makes his silver eyes gleam all the more brightly. John doesn’t usually associate the word  ‘beautiful’ with men, but he can’t find any other word that would accurately describe Sherlock, especially at that moment.

 

“I thought we weren’t supposed to use magic,” John finally says quietly, and the cauldron falls over the same time Sherlock looks up at him. He’s still for a second or two, wand still held aloft.

“I nicked my wand back,” he replies after a beat, flicking it so it stands straight again. He looks down, cheeks colouring slightly as they always do in John’s presence. He looks a little rumpled, like he was in bed until he suddenly realised he had a detention to sludge through.

“So you just magically cleaned them?” John asks lightly, crossing the room and taking the cold bit of floor next to Sherlock. He still keeps a lot of deliberate space between them, this afternoon Sherlock was all but foaming at the mouth. He’s careful, spreads his legs out in front of him but doesn’t brush against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock shrugs, bringing his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on his knees. His wand dangles between his fingers. “It’s easier that way.”

John can’t find himself wondering if he’s talking about something else completely. It throws him for a good minute.

“So, uh--” he clears his throat. “Are we out of cauldrons to clean?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches. He turns his head so his ear is resting on his forearm and now smiles at John, a little mischievously. It takes his breath away. “No, I left some for you.”  
John finds himself looking at Sherlock’s mouth. “Is this your way of getting back at me for trying to save your arse?”

He rolls his eyes. “My arse didn’t need saving, as was evident by my prudent use of non verbal magic,” Sherlock reminds him. “Now look what you’ve done. We’re both in detention.”

“Yeah, well. Sorry about that.” He looks at the three, evil- smelling cauldrons pushed up against the wall. “I didn’t think Edwards would tattle.”

“Of course he would tattle, you idiot,” Sherlock mutters. “He hates me.”

“And why exactly does he hate you?”

“Doesn’t matter. You should clean those cauldrons.”

“But if you did it instead-”

“No.” he shifts, so he’s leaning his head against the stone and his wrists rest elegantly on his knees. “Clean your own cauldrons, serves you right.”

And then he shuts his eyes.

John stares at him, and he wants to tell Sherlock that he’s being unfair. Not because he’s making him clean his cauldrons but because John wouldn’t be able to concentrate with Sherlock just _sitting there_ like that, pale neck stretched out and lashes curled against sharp cheekbones. How on earth can John work knowing that this beautiful, insane boy is watching him?

Slughorn probably doesn’t care about the cauldrons either way, John thinks to himself as he puts on his gloves and raids the supply cupboard for cleaning equipment.

He turns around and Sherlock is looking at him, wide eyed, almost with a kind of scientific curiosity. “Like what you see?” John teases, and satisfaction purrs smugly in his belly at Sherlock’s resulting blush.

“I’m the one with a wand,” he reminds him.

“Hmm, no, not really, but mine’s probably bigger.”

“That’s _apalling,_ ” Sherlock says, making an enormous sound of disgust.

“You asked for it.”

“No, I did not. I most certainly did not ask for that. I’m leaving, this is a waste of time.”

Sherlock actually does get up to leave, but John beats him to it, grabs his wrist. Sherlock looks slightly alarmed, looks between John’s tanned fingers curled around his skin and then at his face.

“Stay,” John says. He watches Sherlock swallow.

“Fine, I’ll help you,” he says quietly. “Here, give me that.”

“You could just _use your wand-_ ”

“No,” he says stubbornly. “Give me some of that magical mess remover.”  
John smirks, can’t help it, really, and hands him the bottle.

 

Sherlock works with a kind of single-minded intensity, even though his build suggests he’s not suited for manual labour. Probably barely needs to, he’s so good at magic. He rolls his sleeves up and taps his hands with his wand to bind them with a protective spell.

John can’t say watching Sherlock exert himself doesn’t get him thinking, fantasizing almost. He’s usually so pale and proper, John finds his mind going in inappropriate directions, thinking what he’d look like with the flush of sex, sweat-soaked hair and skin, heavy breaths expanding his slender chest.

Sherlock catches him staring and just raises his eyebrows expectantly like he expects John to ask a question, and not of the, _“May I please shag you?_ ” type. It astonishes him that Sherlock does not know quite how desperately John wants him, all the time.

Sherlock wipes his brow with his forearm. His cheeks are flushed. “John, why are you taking so much time with that? Oh, for--” he frowns at John’s ineptitude and finally just taps the side of the cauldron with a finger. The sludge John’s been trying to get rid of vanishes.

“Ah,” John says, and takes off his gloves. Sherlock cleans them with his wand and then hands them back to him, John pockets them.

He watches Sherlock magic all the cauldrons back into his place and feels something hard and hot claw at his insides. It’s almost painful, wanting and not having. Does Sherlock know that? Does he have any idea?

“I should thank you.”

John frowns at him. “What?”

“It was unnecessary, but appreciated all the same,” Sherlock blurts out quickly, in a rush. His twists his fingers together nervously. “No one has ever done that, before. Tried to help me like that.”

He fiddles with the hem of his jumper. “I’m punished with detention frequently, I don’t mind it anymore, actually.” He shrugs. “And doing it with someone is far more tolerable than doing it alone, even when I can use magic to get it done with. I owe you a favour for that.”

Sherlock is talking, telling him something, but John has long since stopped listening. He lifts a hand and rubs his thumb at a spot underneath Sherlock’s ear, somewhere high up his neck. There’s a smear of something blue. Magical mess remover.

Sherlock stills like a deer when it hears the sound of a gunshot in the forest. He used to go hunting with his dad, aeons ago. John rubs the solution into his skin, fascinated by the way it looks on his pale neck.

“As I was saying--” Sherlock says shakily. For some inexplicable reason, his back is pushed up against the wall. John has no idea how that has happened.

“You have some-” John tries to say, but Sherlock barrels through.

“I owe you a favour-”

“Good, I’d like a kiss.”

Sherlock stops talking immediately. John wants to take that back, wants to backpedal like an idiot, blot out his words from Sherlock’s mind. But he also feels dangerous and reckless, wants the shape of Sherlock’s mouth burnt into his own.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock whispers.

John suddenly realises Sherlock has nowhere to go, trapped between John’s body and the wall. It makes something dark and possessive curl in his belly, something that only rears its head in his fantasies.

“Am I being ridiculous?” John asks, and his hand slides up his neck to cup his nape.

“That’s not the kind of favour I had in mind.”

“Tell me to stop.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, his breath fast and heated as he surveys John. His eyes are dark, and his tongue darts out to wet his lip. John’s gaze zeroes in on that sudden swipe of tongue, feels a sudden need to claim it, push between Sherlock’s lips and taste it.

“You’re absolutely _mental,_ ” John tells Sherlock, and presses his lips to the corner of his mouth, lightly, lightly.

“What- what are you doing.”

“Kissing you, what does it look like?”  
“N-not yet, you’re not,” Sherlock stammers. “Do it properly.”

John makes a helpless, urgent noise, and curls his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, slants his lips against his mouth. Sherlock nearly loses his balance and falls but John takes his other arm and wraps it around his waist, brings him closer. Sherlock whines, hesitantly curls his hands over John’s shoulders, parts his mouth under John’s probing tongue. John can tell from the trembling of his body and the tentative movement of his mouth that he was right- Sherlock’s never been kissed before, and that makes him crave him so much more.

“Do you know,” he says breathlessly, tugging his plump bottom lip with his teeth. “Do you have any idea- how long- how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

“Shut up, shut up,” Sherlock stutters, wrapping his arms more insistently around John’s shoulders. “Kiss me.”

John growls. There’s no other word for it. He growls and pushes Sherlock harder against the wall with his hips. Sherlock shudders, legs falling open with a whimper and the noise makes John’s cock thicken in his trousers. He thrusts gently between Sherlock’s legs, fingers finding their way under Sherlock’s jumper and shirt to caress the warm, soft skin just above his waistline.

Sherlock’s eyes widen when John’s cock brushes his crotch. “ _Oh,”_ he says, and it’s the hottest, sexiest thing John has ever heard. John kisses him filthily, tongue slipping into his mouth and teeth scraping at his lips, his jaw, his neck. Sherlock’s mouth parts and he goes pliant and soft, almost as if he’s offering himself up like a gift. The tempting thought that he could push Sherlock to his knees and have him like that runs through his mind, makes his cock twitch and he drives into him harder, faster. Sherlock gasps pleasingly and John, he can’t get enough of him, oh god, _oh god-_ Sherlock writhes underneath him and he tries to stop, to go slow, but then Sherlock makes a desperate noise and claws his hands into his shirt and pulls him closer and spreads his legs wider, hips thrusting up and forward, seeking friction- like he’s telling John to go ahead and _take._

When he finally says, “Okay, stop, John- shit, I-” he shudders helplessly against him, head falling into the crook of his neck. “Oh _god.”_

John’s arm around his waist tightens, concerned- until he feels it- warm wetness seeping into the front of Sherlock’s trousers. His hips cant restlessly against John’s, and he’s making soft ‘ _ah, ah, ah_ ’ noises.

“Oh Christ,” John says, his voice shaking.

Sherlock shivers, and he pants against John’s neck, breath muggy and hot. His fingers are clawed tightly into John’s biceps, as though he is afraid of falling.

“Fuck,” Sherlock says, voice muffled against his shoulder, and John laughs at the oddness of the expletive in his smooth, cultured voice. “Sorry.”

“Sorry? Holy Circe, that- that was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, I just made you come in your pants.”

Sherlock lifts his head from John’s shoulder and squints at him, almost as though he’s trying to see him properly. His eyes look almost dazed, cheeks ruddy and mouth bruised red from the pressure of John’s teeth. Merlin, he’s a _vision._ His cock strains almost painfully against his trousers, thinking about how he’d like to lift Sherlock off the floor and fuck him against the wall.

Sherlock is staring at him, looking a bit off-kilter.

“Sherlock?”

“I-“ Sherlock’s eyes suddenly widen. “Oh god-”

“What? What is it?” He suddenly goes rigid and tensed against him, arms falling away from where they were locked around John’s shoulders.

“I didn’t—“ he blinks rapidly, as if he’s squinting something out of his eyes. “Did someone put you up to that?”

John stares at him. “Put me up to what? What the hell are you talking you?” John steps closer but Sherlock raises his palms in a panic and pushes him back. “Someone told you.”

“Told me _what?”_

“I have to go,” Sherlock says hurriedly, and slips from between the wall and John’s body, looking around blindly for something. He bends and John watches in confusion as he picks up his wand, cleans himself up lightning quick and then pockets it.

John feels vaguely ill. “Sherlock, I’m sorry, just tell me—“

He turns around quickly and John stops short. “Do me a favour,” Sherlock tells him evenly. His hair is damp, sticking to his temples, and his shirt is still un-tucked, jumper rumpled. He looks like he’s been kissed, like something that should belong to John. “And don’t follow me.”

John gapes at him in bewilderment, his insides curling up like burning paper, fire crackles and hisses in his ears. Sherlock looks at him for a second more, and John wishes desperately he could fathom what his gaze was saying, and then he stalks right out the room without another word.

The world tilts slightly off its axis.

 

John looks down at his hand, where the blue potion is still smeared across his skin like a bloodstain.

 

***

III

 

Sherlock rips the parchment he’s supposed to be writing his Potions essay on and instead makes the tiny scraps race each other across the surface of his desk. Sometimes they get caught by the wind and hover around meaninglessly before inevitably being pulled down by the gravity of the earth.

Sunlight filters slow and lazy through the glass of his window, dust swirls in the glowing beams of sunshine. His fingers are cold and he tries to warm them under it, but it’s largely ineffective. A pile of homework looms over him threateningly, and he hasn’t turned in his Astronomy essay three classes in a row and now he has detention on top of everything else. It’s quiet in the dorm, most people are in the common room or outside or still asleep. Victor is snoring peacefully in his bed, mouth wide open and fingers curled delicately on top of his bed sheet. Sherlock shifts his socked feet against each other, they’re cold. _Famous Quiddich Teams of the 18th Century_ is propped up against a pile of textbooks, a handsome, blonde haired wizard in old fashioned robes grinning cheekily and waving at him from the cover.

 

He tries hard not to feel sad, but he fails spectacularly.

 

***

 

“This is getting ridiculous,” someone tells him, but Sherlock ignores them. He doesn’t want to emerge from the warm cavern underneath his bed covers, where he isn’t haunted by the threat of running into John by mistake, or worse still, one of his many girlfriends.

“You haven’t come to classes for almost a week, you’re going to fall behind like this, and Waters keeps asking me where you are. I’m not fending off any more advances, thanks.”

Sherlock groans. “He’s not making advances,” he says, voice muffled. “He wants me to do his Transfiguration homework for him.”

He can hear Victor curse something awful underneath his breath, and then the covers are ripped viciously away from his body. Cold air blasts his skin and he immediately covers his eyes and turns over. “Go away.”

“No, I won’t. What are you doing? Pining?” Sherlock looks up from where his hands are curled over his face and raises an eyebrow at Victor.

“Why would I be pining?”

Victor raises an eyebrow back. “Let’s not pretend like I don’t know what’s going on here.”

Sherlock would in fact, love to pretend that. Victor is actually quite astute and it’s likely that he had noticed Sherlock’s crush before he had knowledge of it himself. Still, the last thing he wants to do is talk about because it inevitably makes his chest hurt and his throat swell and despair starts clawing itself out of his mouth.

“I’m aware you pride yourself on being astoundingly clever,” Sherlock sneers instead, his natural coping mechanism preparing itself. “But I regret to inform you that you are rather dull.”

Victor sighs, and sits down on the edge of his bed. He must have just returned from class; his longish black hair is pulled up into a bun on top of his head and his tie is askew. Sherlock stares at him from his own bed, feeling vulnerable and ridiculous, he hates it when Victor tries being his _friend._

“You know, he asked me about you today.”

Sherlock’s heart stops beating for a moment. Well, it doesn’t, not _really,_ because that would imply he’s dead, but it does feel like it. Victor must be lying. He tucks his face into his pillow and grumbles his disapproval. The covers are wound tightly around his ankles now, like they’re taking him as prisoner.

“Is he always covered in mud? It’s revolting. Anyway, your filthy mud-covered boyfriend cornered me in the library and demanded to know where you were. Seemed to think you were either dead or dying. I deduce there’s been a development since I last heard of your infatuation. Do tell.”

Infatuation.

 

infatuation

ɪnˌfatʃʊˈeɪʃ(ə)n,-tjʊ-/

_Intense but not usually long lasting feelings for something or someone/short lived_

_synonyms: puppy love_

 

Sherlock finds difficulty finding a name for what he feels for John, but infatuation is definitely not one of them. He highly doubts infatuation makes you feel hot and cold all at once, as if you’ve stung yourself with a thousand billywigs and now you’ll be hovering listlessly, without aim, for years.

“What did you tell him,” Sherlock finally croaks.

“I told him to fuck himself with his own wand,” Victor replies, sounding very calm.

Sherlock opens his eyes and turns over slowly. “Really.”

Victor examines his fingernails. “Indeed. He can talk to you himself if he pleases, I’m sure he’ll shag the riddle answer from whoever is willing.”

“He’s not like that.”

“No?” Victor shrugs. “I don’t care, either way. You’re delusional and he’s a massive pain in the arse, I’m sure you’re well suited to each other.”

“Are you sure he asked after me?”

“Yes he did. Personally, I think he should be concentrating on NEWTs but he must have been hit by a Bludger one too many times for his brain to be at maximum functioning capacity. Still, one hopes.”

Something stirs feebly in Sherlock’s chest; expanding and stretching and curling tightly around his ribcage. Presumably John simply feels guilty...would want to apologise...remind him it was all a mistake. He can imagine all too clearly, John’s clear blue eyes looking contrite, his stance uncomfortable but firm...telling him in a kind tone that it was just a joke, a dare, or the result of too many nights spent studying. There could be any number of reasons why John kissed him, none of them being that he had a genuine reason for doing so, because statistically, the chances of that are extremely low.

“Sherlock, you can’t mope in your bed all day, this is stupid,” Victor finally says, getting up. He moves his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his middle finger. Maybe he’s trying to tell Sherlock something. Sherlock squints at him.

“You’ve missed too many classes, and I’m sick of taking notes for you.”

“Well, I never asked you too,” Sherlock mumbles into his pillow. It smells of unwashed hair. Maybe Victor is right. He should take a bath.

“What do I do if I run into him?” he demands, turning towards him. Victor is already standing, picking up Sherlock’s discarded socks and notes from the floor and putting them on the bed.

“He’ll try to snog you, presumably.”

Sherlock feels a hot flush around the back of his neck, somewhere around his ears. Maybe he’s burning up. Victor raises an eyebrow at him, which would have been impressive if he hadn’t been holding a pair of bright purple socks.

“You look like you’d like that.”

Sherlock clears his throat and stumbles out of bed, putting on his trousers, muttering under his breath. Victor hands him the socks. “Just be yourself,” Victor answers, rolling his eyes. “And honestly, Sherlock, although I think you could do better, if you fancy him, and he fancies you, what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that he shouldn’t be fancying me at all,” he answers, and leaves the room, one sock still in his hand.

 

_____________________________

 

Sherlock is leaving Transfiguration when Waters corners him outside the classroom, looking determined, and unless Sherlock is wrong, slightly manic. He hopes it’s because he’s been up all night studying for NEWTs, because that would be far preferable to the alternative. Victor looks slightly revolted at the sight of him, and turns around and leaves without Sherlock.

“I thought you were ill,” Waters said, standing in front of him so he can’t move without pushing him bodily out of his way.

Sherlock resigns himself to his fate. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Well, I’m glad you weren’t ill,” he says, uselessly, and Sherlock stares at him. Waters’ brown hair falls across his forehead in what would have been an artistic way if Sherlock hadn’t been distracted by the odd way he was being looked at. His eyes are...very brown. An interesting colour.

“I-” he clears his throat. “Alright.”

“So, I was wondering, are you and Watson…?”  
“Me and Watson?”

“Well, are you-”

“Are you _insane_?” Sherlock spits out. He wants to curse Waters’ mouth off. It took a great deal of effort to get out of bed today, trudge his way through classes, stare resolutely at his breakfast plate because he was too afraid of mistakenly looking at John at the Gryffindor table, so no, Malcolm Waters will not _ruin this for him._

Waters looks taken aback. “Certainly not.”

“Well, stop asking asinine questions then,” Sherlock seethes at him. “I have to go.”  
“Yeah, let me just ask you--”

Sherlock stops listening for a few seconds while he looks around and notices that the corridor is mostly empty and everyone has left for their next class, which leaves him in an empty hallway trying to fend off Waters’ thinly veiled advances. When he turns to him again, he realises Waters is still speaking. Fascinating that he hasn’t noticed that Sherlock isn’t listening.

Of course Waters is caging him off on one side so he’ll have to wiggle out from the other, so Sherlock prepares to do that when he sees John coming down from the other side of the corridor with one of his many female friends on his arm.

Sherlock feels like a wandless, magic-less person stranded in the desert, seeing an oasis for the first time in days. He wants to run to John, grab hold of his robes and demand that he kiss him again, ask him, _did you really mean it-_ but he shoves the instinct down mercilessly and pushes Waters off him instead. He knows John sees him, can distinctly hear him call his name. He also realises Waters has by no means been fended off either, instead choosing to doggedly follow him.

Sherlock turns around to address Waters when they’re in a semi-crowded corridor, and Waters almost bumps into him. This is possibly one of the most distasteful situations Sherlock has been in his entire life.

“Yes, what is it, what do you want,” he snaps at him, leaning off to one side to avoid crowding the corridor. Of course Waters takes this as an invitation to move into his personal space to speak to him. Sherlock moves an inch back. Waters moves an inch forward. Sherlock has a deep desire to jinx his eyebrows off. Perhaps he could, he’s excellent at non verbal magic, even wandless. But he does try to keep that as a secret.

“...so if you and Watson aren’t going out, it’d be just great.”

“What?”

“You weren’t listening to me.”

“No,” Sherlock says honestly, looking over Waters’ shoulder to check if John is coming. He isn’t, not yet. “Do hurry up, I have class.”

“You could come to Hosgmeade with me next week.”

“No, I don’t want to,” Sherlock replies. “I have to go, do excuse me.”

With that he pushes past him and heads off to the right, in the opposite direction to the Charms classroom, where he is expected to go, but he’d much rather just be as far from Waters as possible.

When he’s running down the stairs, someone grabs him by the shoulder and he turns around, saying, “Oh, Waters, do go away,” but instead, is met with a pair of dark green eyes.

Sherlock recognizes the pretty girl that John seems to be with almost all the time, the strong-looking Chaser from his team. Sherlock frowns at her, slightly uncomfortable with the way her fingers are still curled tightly around his collar. She pushes him slightly to the side so that people can move past them. Sherlock almost drops his books.

“I’m Elliot,” she tells him.

“Fascinating. What do you want?” he can’t help keeping the snark out of his voice, not when he dislikes her so immensely. Although even he knows that there’s no reason he should do so except for the fact that John touches her on a daily basis. She seems intelligent, unlike the rest of Hogwart’s population.

“Look, mate, you’re the one Watson’s been moonin’ after, and I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but you better make it up real quick because he’s going to get depressed an’ fall off his broom the next time we play.”

She has a loud, broad Scottish accent. Sherlock raises both eyebrows. “He’s not ‘moonin’ after me, and if you please, let me go, I’m busy.”

He tries moving away, but she just smirks and holds him fast. “No, this is stupid, an’ I’m not havin’ it.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at her and concentrates for a moment, reciting the spell under his breath. Warmth flood his hands and his gut. Suddenly Elliot hisses and withdraws her fingers, like she’s been stung, which she has. But only slightly, it’ll be fine in about one minute.

“Just leave me alone,” he tells her, almost apologetically. These kind of things usually end with a fist to his stomach or a Jelly-Legs Jinx, sometimes a far more painful curse. But Elliot just rubs her slightly-red fingers and looks at him with an amused expression.

“I see why he likes you,” she murmurs, and Sherlock ignores the odd swooping sensation in his stomach, the flush at the back of his neck. “Very handy curse, how’d you do it?”

“It’s non verbal,” he answers.

“And wandless, I noticed. Weasley can do that too.”

“Which one?”

“The smart one.” She takes out her wand from inside her robes and touches the tip to her fingers. Cooling spell, probably. “I’ll pass on your message to Watson then, shall I?” With that she turns around and skips upstairs and out of sight.

 

Sherlock takes a deep breath and leans against the wall, stance uneven with one foot on the lower step. The tips of his ears are hot, his heart thudding uselessly against his chest. His fingertips still fuzzy. _I can see why he likes you._

 

***

 

Sherlock likes magic, the unpredictability of it, the way you can feel it crackling in your veins, the way it swirls around your body like a band and releases itself from your skin, _whoosh._

But logic he understands, an acceptable conclusion comes from an acceptable hypothesis, but conjecture doesn’t give rise to solid truth. Facts are facts.

It’s hard for him to comprehend human behaviour sometimes, like why John pushed him up against a wall and kissed an orgasm out of him, like Sherlock’s been wanting for _ages._ The universe so rarely gives him what he wants.

He can’t explain why he’s so sure that John will have him for a while and then leave, like everyone does.

But he wants it, he wants it so bad.

***

 

John is so sure he’s going to die. It’ll be from exhaustion, or sexual tension, or just the pure jealousy and unadulterated anger at looking at Malcolm Water’s face. The next time he touches Sherlock, John thinks, he’ll fucking curse off his arm, he’ll-

He sees Sherlock instead, walking past him towards the library, shirt untucked and pen behind his ear, ink splattered fingers and hair curling at his nape. He’s gone in a second, but John stares after him, open mouthed, thinking about stupid things like lacing their fingers together and kissing each of his knuckles one by one.

Before he realises he should have grabbed him and explained things instead, he’s gone and John knows he won’t find him if he doesn’t want to be found.

 

***

He turns Malcolm’s his hair purple in the middle of lunch, just for the fun of it. He catches Sherlock’s eye, just for a second.

***

 

“I should have known I’d finally catch you in the library.”

Sherlock drops his book with a little gasp. The book never reaches the floor. John’s wand is clasped in his fingers and levitates it back into the shelf.

“I-”

Before he can finish his sentence, John is pushing his way into his personal space, not touching him, but caging him off effectively, one arm stretched out, resting on the bookshelf.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s so unexpected that Sherlock gapes at him at first, sputtering, struggling to find words.

This is unexpected. Sherlock had been so careful, trying to keep out of his sight. He’d even missed the match, even though he’d wanted to watch so badly, fantasizing about John asking him to ride behind him again, kissing him while the wind rushed through his hair. Then he’d pushed it down and gone to the library instead.

 

_“You’re depressed,” Victor tells him. “You’re fucking depressed, Sherlock. Go to the match. Talk to him. Bloody hell, did you just eat all of those chocolate cauldrons?”_

_“Yes,” Sherlock turns the page of one of the books he nicked off the Restricted Section. “I did.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand._

_Victor makes a noise of enormous disgust and takes away the empty box to bin it. “Merlin, Sherlock, he really does fancy you, he won’t leave me alone.”_

_“He’s being stupid,” Sherlock told him, resolutely staring at the same word he’s been staring at for the past minute._

_“No, you are.”_

 

In any case, despite Victor’s accusations, Sherlock was so sure he was doing the right thing. It was self preservation, plain and simple, an automatic bodily response. Clearly it wasn’t a ‘crush’ anymore, and to say he ‘fancied’ John Watson sounded silly and juvenile.

 

“Sherlock, for God’s sake, can you please say something?” John demands, and Sherlock looks at John properly for the first time, and he hasn’t been this close to John in days, and he just-he just-

“What are you doing here?” he stammers. He wishes he was still holding the book. It would give him something to do with his hands. As it is, he’s backed up against a bookshelf with a very determined-looking John Watson in front of him. The last time he was in this situation he was being kissed, followed by a spectacular pre-mature ejaculation. His cheeks fill with heat at the memory.

“Looking for you,” John says impatiently. “I’ve been trying to talk to you for days. Your friend Trevor clocked me last time, just fucking clocked me in the face-” Sherlock raises his eyebrows. -” yeah, that was just fantastic,” he scowls. “And now. Now I’m here. And I’ve found you. And well. I’m sorry. I wanted to say that. I’ll apologise. For anything. Just. Stop avoiding me. Please.”

Apologising. For what? Sherlock stares at him- the golden blonde of his hair falling into his eyes, a smudge of dirt across his cheek- he’s still in his Quiddich robes. Dragon hide stretching across his hands, blue eyes burning into his. John looks desperate.

Sherlock can’t understand it, why John would be apologising to him, unless he really does regret kissing him and hopes they can both bury it behind themselves.

“You thought someone put me up to it,” he continues, probably realising Sherlock will be incapable of speech for a few moments. “You said that, remember? I’ve got no fucking idea why you’d say that, I’ve been driving myself mad thinking about it-I kissed you because I wanted to, I’ve been wanting to for ages-so no, no one told me to do that, and I can’t believe why you’d think so. You told me not to follow you, and I did, but only because I want to say sorry, since clearly you didn’t enjoy it as much as I did, and-”

“I enjoyed it,” Sherlock says suddenly.

John stops, mid-sentence, and stares at him, wide eyed. “Well thank Merlin for that,” he says heavily, and runs a hand through his hair, clearly exasperated. The thought of him becoming impatient and undone because he’s been secretly pining after Sherlock...does things to him. “God, Sherlock, just tell me clearly if you wanted that or not. I’ll back off, I promise, if you say no.”

 _No?_ Why on Earth would Sherlock say no? John would back off. Does Sherlock want that? No, god no, Sherlock wants exactly the _opposite_ of backing off- whatever that would entail- but he doesn’t have enough data to foresee what conclusion that would bring. He searches for an answer.

“It was inconceivable to me,” he replies quickly, quietly, before he runs out of words. “that you’d want to- I’m sorry, John, I-”

“Oh, you daft _idiot,”_ John interrupts him, “You’re bloody gorgeous. And smart. _Anyone_ would want to, trust me.” Sherlock blinks at him, surprised.

“You’re biased,” he decides. Looks for something else to back up his statement. Licks his lips. “I don’t know. By something. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“Well, are you?” John asks him.

“I am always thinking clearly.”

“Then why don’t _you_ tell me what you want?”

John looks at him expectantly, head cocked to one side, the side of his mouth pulled up in a little smirk.

Sherlock…

Sherlock _wants._ How does he explain that to John? He wants John’s mouth, and his hands, and he wants his fingers laced between his own, wants to pull John’s laughter out of him until it settles around him, hazy and golden. He wants the rush he feels when John pushes him against a wall, like this, kisses him so thoroughly he forgets everything else, that particular shape of John’s smile, he wants-

“I want you to kiss me,” he says honestly, helplessly, and it’s so _unfair._

“That can be arranged,” John replies immediately, his smile all teeth; predatory. He steps closer to him until Sherlock can smell him; grass and wind and sweat, just off a Quiddich match, his skin slightly damp from the light rain. John hand curls around the back of his neck so easily, moves into his personal space until he eclipses everything else; all of his movements practised and sure. Sherlock feels hot, all of a sudden, as if the walls of the library are closing in on them. “Very easily,” John continues. “But you have to promise me you don’t bloody run away again. You don’t avoid me. You don’t stop talking to me. I kiss you, and you just have to take my word for it that I’m doing it because I really fancy you, and I really, really want to kiss you. God, Sherlock, you have to promise me that, please.”

_I really fancy you._

Sherlock swallows. “I promise.”  
“You better fucking mean it,” John growls, tilting his head and kisses him- softly. Sherlock had been expecting it to be demanding and hot, the slickness of John’s tongue in his mouth. But John surprises him- again- and frames his face with his hands and kisses him like he’d break if he did it too roughly.

“You can- do it- harder--” Sherlock murmurs against his mouth. _You can do anything,_ he thinks silently, but decides not to say it.

“Shut up,” John replies without heat, and licks the bottom of his lip, the material of his gloves warm against his bare skin. Sherlock doesn’t know how to kiss, how one goes from chaste and nervous to hot and wet, to the possessive slice of teeth- he only knows how to open his mouth willingly and let John in.

He squirms a bit when John bites down softly on his bottom lip, and John curls a hand into his hair then, stilling him into submission. Sherlock gasps when John tugs a little, and maybe that is when the kiss changes, John groans quietly and his hips shift against him, one arm curling around his lower back to push Sherlock against him more firmly. Sherlock feels off-balance with the pressure of John’s crotch against his own, thrusting lightly, his teeth on his jaw-

“Quiet,” John admonishes him, when Sherlock moans while he’s sucking a bruise on to the skin. “We’ll get caught.”

“Good,” Sherlock says breathlessly. “We can- get- detention together.” He grabs the lapel of John’s shirt and pulls him closer. “Please,” he says softly, because he knows John likes it when he begs.

John groans, frustrated, and his hips shift restlessly against Sherlock, seeking out friction, the breathy whisper of Sherlock’s voice going straight to his cock.

“ _Please,_ John,” he says, spreading his legs. John’s teeth on his neck is just short of too much- the nip of his teeth just barely threatening, his tongue hot and wet. Sherlock chokes on his name and his fingers tangle into the hair curling at the back of John’s neck.

“Oh- oh god,” he moans. “There’s going to be a mark.”

“Good,” John echoes him, using his hair to pull his head to one side, and licks a stripe up his neck. “Fuck, you smell fantastic, do you know that _-”_ Sherlock registers faintly that John is saying something, but he’s also found his collarbone and is licking at the skin there, so he chooses not to comment.

 

Suddenly John stills and pushes away from him, picks out a book at random and starts flipping through it aimlessly. Sherlock stares at him for a second, off kilter and flailing wildly to support himself on the shelf, staring bewildered at John, who turns to him and does something odd with his eyes. Why is he blinking so mu-oh! It the split second it takes Sherlock to catch on, he can’t do anything more sophisticated than turn around and stare at the books in front of him.

 

“Why are you still here? Get out!” Pince finally screams behind them, and Sherlock, mouth swollen and tingling, the side of his neck pink with John’s teeth marks, tries his best to control the racing of his heart. His crotch is uncomfortably tight.

“Yeah, we’ll be right out,” John says evenly. “Just a second.”  
“OUT!” Pince screams, so John grabs Sherlock’s wrist and pulls him out of the corner before anyone can take too close a look at either of them.

Sherlock feels extremely giddy when John finally manages to take them somewhere quiet and empty. He doesn’t even know how they got here, only that John is pushing him against a wall again and he’s laughing and kissing him, softly, on the crests of his cheekbones, his left eyebrow, on his jaw.

Then Sherlock starts laughing, and he can’t stop, he’s laughing so hard he has to stifle the sound of it with his hand. Sherlock is sure he has never laughed this hard before, the thrill of it arcing down his spine, his chest tight with the intensity of it.

“Ah, fuck,” John says, and leans his forehead against Sherlock’s. “I had a boner you could see from London, damn, I hope I didn’t give her an eyeful.”

Sherlock’s lips are still tingling. “Pince is an asexual being who wouldn’t care if she saw your boner,” he replies.

“Fair enough,” he pulls away and Sherlock almost whines at the loss of contact; he feels like a bloody balloon, light-headed and breathless, as if he’d float away if John’s hand didn’t ground him down. John is grinning at him, his easy, wolfish smile, the one that makes him think of knife-sharp edges, fingers digging into his hips. “Now then, Holmes, will you come upstairs to my dorm with me?”

Sherlock isn’t sure what his face looks like when John gives him this alarming proposition, but it makes John break out in a grin. “Aw, love, that’s not what I meant. Although, if you’re inclined-”

“I.” Sherlock swallows. What does that even entail? Something to do with sex, certainly. Something being pushed into his body. The idea seems oddly thrilling and horrifying at the same time.

“Oh, Merlin, you don’t have to look at me like that,” John laughs. “You look like you’ve just seen a Boggart. The match, remember? The one you didn’t bloody watch because you were too busy being daft. We won, by the way-” he kisses his cheek then, “Might have scored the snitch sooner if I knew you were there, but oh well. Anyway, so there’s a party upstairs, courtesy of Gryffindor, and all houses are invited, and I’d love if you’d come with me. Drink some firewhisky. Snog me senseless. How does that sound?”

John’s hand is curled around his hip. Snogging John senseless. Being with John. Doing more of- whatever they did in the library. During their detention in the dungeons. Heat pools somewhere in the vicinity of his abdomen.

These all sound like highly appealing ideas.

“I don’t like people,” Sherlock tells him honestly.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that, funnily enough,” He point to a bruise on his jaw that Sherlock hadn’t noticed before. How sloppy of him. “You like Trevor enough though. See that? That’s where he clocked me.”

“He persists in being my friend, I assume no control over his actions.”

“Horrible, isn’t it? Having friends?” John rolls his eyes. “You know why I’m taking you with me, right? I’m afraid you’ll run off again. And then you’ll leave me pining after you. I was thinking of nicking some Felix Felicis from Slughorn’s office before I told you that I fancy you.”

“You needn’t have bothered,” Sherlock raises a hand and brushes some hair from John’s forehead. His hair is so soft. “Unnecessary, when your feelings are…” he swallows. “Reciprocated.”  
“Reciprocated, eh?” John slides his arms around Sherlock’s waist and kisses him again. His mouth is warm, slightly wet. “Come with me, please.”

Several thoughts pass through Sherlock’s head at the moment, most of them, however, with the same theme: _This is a bad idea,_ and _It’s only going to end badly,_ and _Are you really that clever? Don’t think so_ but it’s hard to pay attention to them when John is looking at him like that, and the promise of _more_ is _right there._ Supposedly this only happens in fantasies, but he’s sure this isn’t one.

And what can Sherlock say, with John’s hard body pressed against him like that?

He smiles. “Alright.”

 

***

Sherlock has never been to the Gryffindor common room before, mostly because he never knew anyone well enough to be invited. The passwords are all easily predictable, though, but he never felt the inclination to try it out. He prefers the stately dignity of his own common room better, although there is a certainly cosy appeal to the room he’s in right now.

The first thing that hits him is the noise; someone’s clearly tuned into to some horrible station that’s playing WizPop- he prefers Muggle classical music better. Someone’s hung up banners with the team’s faces on it; John has a purple crown which he keeps taking off to wink at and smirk at everyone in the room. How apt. He doesn’t get time to observe much else because someone is shoving a bottle of something cold into his hand.

He realises John, who was by his side, is no longer there, instead being accosted by a group of Gryffindors in Quiddich Robes. Most of them are drunk. Before he can reflect on how he feels being left alone in favour of his team, someone slips an arm around his shoulder.

“Got there in the end, I see,” Elliot says.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “How did you nick the Firewhisky?”

She laughs. “How do you know it me?”

Sherlock gives her a look. She laughs again. He’s not sure whether she’s making fun of him, or simply amused. He’s not the kind of person who’s able to make people laugh. Except John, but obviously, he’s different.

“Bloody clever, aren’t you?” she tells him, but without any malice. “Never you mind, little ‘un. I have my ways.” She clinks her bottle with his. “Don’t worry, he’ll be back soon. He’s our captain, after all.” She gestures towards his bottle. “Drink up. First time, is it?”  
Sherlock scoffs. “I nicked firewhisky from the Hog’s Head for the first time when I was _thirteen,_ ” he informs her.

“You seem more like the elf-made wine type, you’re too posh for firewhisky. John drinks that muggle trash sometimes- beer, they call it, but it’s not really beer, it tastes like piss.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock murmurs, and watches a girl from the team ruffle John’s hair. The hair _he’d_ been holding on to, when John had been grinding against him in the library.

Jealousy takes on a shaper edge in his stomach, something that hadn’t been there before. It’s more intense. More...justified. _Mine,_ a voice whispers in his mind. _He’s supposed to be mine._ Sherlock downs the firewhisky. It burns in his throat like acid, he resists the temptation to cough.

“Your Mycroft’s brother, aren’t you?” Elliot asks him. She’s cross legged on the floor, and someone is next to her, a dark haired boy with his head in her lap, glasses askew. She notices his questioning gaze and grins. “Oh, that’s Potter, can’t you see? I think he’s already passed out. Fucking lightweight. Have to get him to bed before Minnie breaks down the door.”

“Yes, Mycroft is my brother.” Ugh, distasteful. Why are they talking about Mycroft?

“D’you know he shagged my sister?”

Sherlock is saved from the horror of replying to that with John’s reappearance. “Give me some’o that,” he greets Sherlock with, and takes his bottle. Looks comically crestfallen when he finds the bottle empty. “You finished it, then.”

Sherlock smiles at him, because he’s so happy to see him, happy that John’s back again, not being pawed at by anyone who isn’t Sherlock. He feels a faint buzzing in his head.

Even the tops of John’s cheeks are flushed. “Christ, I need another bottle,” he says, and swipes the one clasped loosely in Potter’s hand. “Idiot,” he mutters under his breath, and drinks it.

“You two off to shag, then?” Elliot asks them.

“Keep your mouth shut,” John hisses at Elliot, looking slightly panicked all of a sudden. Sherlock wonders why for a few seconds before it hits him. Ah. Obviously. John doesn’t want anyone knowing- but Sherlock can’t seem to concentrate for too long on it. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Does it? He doesn’t know. He feels he ought to be at least a little bit offended at the thought that John doesn’t want people knowing that he’s sexually attracted to Sherlock, but John is offering Sherlock his bottle and Sherlock stops thinking about that and fixates on the fact that he’s consuming John’s saliva along with firewhisky.

“Oh, come on, the way you look at him, everyone would know you’re ben-”

“Christ, El, shut up, people can hear you,” John whisper-shouts.

Sherlock looks down at his hand. He doesn’t recall reaching for a second bottle, but here it is. Someone’s charmed it to look like a Butterbeer. Interesting. It’s wearing off a bit now, so it reads Buttrewhizzz instead.

“John,” he leans in and whispers in his ear. “Look. Butterwhiz. Isn’t that funny?”

John turns around to look at him, eyes crinkled at the corners like it gets when he laughs. “Hilarious, mate,” he says. Mate. _Mate._

Does John mean mate as in romantic and sexual partner (although that’s usually reserved for animals) or mate as in extremely heterosexual term used for one’s extremely male platonic friend? Sherlock sways a bit. “Am I your mate?” he asks.

“Of course you’re my mate,” John says, and wraps an arm around his waist. “Come upstairs, I’ll show you my dorm. I think mostly everyone’s going to pass out here.”

John picks up two bottles on their way and hands one to Sherlock. He’s probably had enough, he already feels the tips of his ears and the back of his neck heating up, the fuzzy feeling in his head.

John puts the bottle to his lips and throws Sherlock a lazy smile and he already feels drunk.

***

 

 

 

At least the fucking dorm is empty, John thinks. He takes Sherlock’s wrist in his hand when they’re out of sight, and brings it to his mouth, hoping the apology is enough. Sherlock cheeks are already flushed, but his lips part and he looks at John like he can’t quite focus. He doesn’t mind, though.

“Come here,” John stays, and they step across a few discarded socks and robes to the window between two beds, his and Potter’s. It’s raining outside, fat raindrops beating against the window. The water leaves shining trails down the glass, the edges of it are frosted over.

“The view’s better here,” Sherlock says quietly. “But you can’t see the lake.”  
“You can see the Pitch from here, though, look.”

Sherlock smiles, the corners of his mouth widening until it’s something soft and happy. He doesn’t smile like that much, and John wants desperately to see him like that, to see that particular curve of his lips.

“That’s the only thing you care about, isn’t it,” Sherlock jokes.

“I care about you,” John tells him, because it’s _true._

Sherlock turns to look at him, and his smile flickers a bit, his eyes narrow, as if he can’t figure out why John should say such a thing. For such a clever bloke, he can be alarmingly stupid sometimes.

“Really?” Sherlock asks, as if he can’t believe it, and John curls his fingers into his jumper and pulls him closer.

“Obviously,” he mocks, in Sherlock’s posh voice, and Sherlock’s mouth twitches.

“I think you’re drunk, John,” he whispers in his ear.

“So are you.”

“Did you plan this?”

“So I could get into your pants? Nah, I don’t need to use alcohol to make you shag me.”

“Is this you charming me again?”  
“No, this is me snogging you senseless,” John corrects him, and presses his mouth to Sherlock’s.

The firewhisky slips from John’s fingers, falls to the floor with a dull thud. Sherlock tastes like cinnamon and butter and something sharp, his mouth warm and wet and welcoming. John’s fingers twine through his thick hair, and Sherlock opens his mouth. He feels a possessive spark in his gut, like he does each time he touches Sherlock like this, as if he’s branding his skin with his tongue. _Mine mine mine,_ his brain echoes, and one hand slides down his side to cup his hip, eager fingers slipping just a bit below his jumper and his shirt- warm skin-

Sherlock moans. Softly, breathlessly, like he’s trying to control it, and John wants to make him _scream-_

There’s so much he wants to tell him, he thinks. Like how Sherlock’s eyes remind him of the ocean, of constellations- constellations that spell out something more than war. Or maybe this is what you call war, the way his heart desperately tries to keep beating each time Sherlock smiles at him in that soft, sad way of his.

Sherlock pushes him down on the bed somehow, and John’s arse hits the mattress with a soft bump. He looks up at Sherlock, hair standing up at the back and his mouth bruised kiss-red. Sherlock looks at him like he’s something special, even when John feels like he’s trying to solve John like an Arithmancy lesson. He’s breathing softly, and John hands spread over his hips and he brings him down into his lap, making Sherlock gasp.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, thighs bracketing his hips. “John, I-”

“Shhh.” John cups Sherlock’s chin with his fingers and kisses the sentence out of his mouth. He’s still too far away and John can’t stand the physical distance between them, it seems like miles and miles- one arm curls around Sherlock’s narrow waist and he pulls him closer, close enough that if Sherlock just bears down a little-

“Fuck,” he hisses, niping Sherlock’s bottom lip, when his clothed erection brushes Sherlock’s. Sherlock shivers, his mouth falling open so that he pants into John’s mouth. His knees rest on the bed and he holds onto John’s biceps with a death grip, his entire body shuddering when John brings his mouth to his neck.

“Oh, God,” he whispers, and rolls his hips against John’s cock. “I-John, someone, someone will see-”

“They won’t,” John reassures him, and continues to suck a bruise on to the pale skin. It’ll darken beautifully and everyone will _know_ that someone’s had his way with him, that Sherlock belongs to someone.

He brings his hands to the hem of Sherlock’s jumper, and looks at Sherlock expectantly. He keeps having to remind himself that this is Sherlock’s first... _everything,_ but it’s difficult when his crotch is pressed up against his and it would be _easy_ to push Sherlock down and-

“Take it off,” Sherlock whispers, eyes glassy, and John does it without further encouragement. Sherlock’s hair stands up and John can’t help but curl his fingers into it, tilt Sherlock’s head until it’s the perfect angle for him to kiss. He rests his hand gently on the swell of his ribs, can feel the heat of his skin through his shirt, and if he’d take it off, he’d be touching bare skin, fuck-Sherlock slides his hands up his arms and pushes off his robes, fingers trembling a little. John catches his lower lip between his teeth.

“ _Ah,”_ Sherlock says, when John thrusts up and forward against his hardness. It’s such a helpless, desperate sound, John wants to push him down on the bed and fuck him senseless, oh god, _oh god-_ each time Sherlock raises his hips to rub against John’s cock John cups the curve of his arse and squeezes and Sherlock makes a noise that sounds like he’s _begging._ He moans when John pushes him down against his erection, rubbing against him in a rhythm that has no room for finesse or skill, just the maddening fucking _friction,_ and John doesn’t want this clothing between them, wants, _wants_

“John, please, please, _oh-”_

“Shhh,” John says, and he doesn’t know what Sherlock is begging for, so he asks. “What do you want?”

“I- I don’t-I don’t know,” he says, sounding like he’s run for a mile, breathless- cheeks flushed and a bruise blooming just above his collar. He hooks his finger into the open vee of John’s shirt, brings John’s mouth close to his again. His breath puffs against John’s lips, smelling like firewhisky. “Whatever you want.”

John swallows, because Sherlock has no fucking _idea_ about what he wants.

“Alright,” John answers instead, reminding himself that he can’t possibly do everything he wants in the five-minute window they probably have, and kisses the base of his throat, making Sherlock squirm in his lap. The more he moves, the more he presses against his erection and the more John fears he’s going to come in his pants. “Alright, let me just-” he turns them over awkwardly and it would have been much smoother if John wasn’t so tipsy-but he gets Sherlock onto the bed somehow, legs bent and spread slightly, resting his weight on his palms. “Just-” it would be easier if Sherlock wasn’t so pliant under his arms, he keeps worrying that he’s hurting him somehow, but Sherlock just gasps a little when John pushes him gently down against the bed. His head is cushioned by the pillows, and his dark hair spreads out like a halo underneath him. John crouches on top of him, hands pinning Sherlock’s wrists to the bed- and takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and tries to control the erection bursting through his pants. _Whatever you want._

He sees through the haze of drunkenness enough to realise that Sherlock is right- anyone would walk through, at any moment, and catch them in a very, _very_ compromising position.

“Why-why are you-don’t stop,” Sherlock tells him, and his hips shift restlessly against the bed, his own trousers tight and tented around his crotch.

“Just-wait a second,” John says, and then, “You look fucking gorgeous.”  
Sherlock’s cheeks- if possible- grow even more heated and he looks up at him, eyes heavy lidded, bottom lip pinned by his teeth.

“You. Oh God. Let me just- can your turn off the lamps? Someone might-”

Sherlock nods once, and John feels his wrist flex under his hand, and a burst of warmth- until the lamps glowing brightly are extinguished and the room is thrown into darkness.

John looks down at Sherlock, still pinned underneath his body, his eyes silver lights in the dark. He can’t make out Sherlock’s expression at all, just the dim shape of mouth, the brightness of his eyes. At some point of time Sherlock become the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he couldn’t remember any time when he _hadn’t_ thought so. At least not now, with Sherlock looking up at him like this.

“John,” he whispers, canting his hips upward.“Please-”

John kisses him, hard, letting go of his wrists so he can rest his hand on his waist, tugging his shirt out of his trousers.“Oh, wait-” he mutters, and brings his hand to his mouth, sliding off his gloves with his teeth. Sherlock watches him with wide eyes, his Adam’s apple bobs skittishly. “Can I?” he asks, bringing his hands to his waist again. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt. Sherlock just raises his hips to make it easier. The darkness makes it even filthier than it is, almost illicit.

When John fingers the bottom of his t-shirt, Sherlock’s mouth parts and John runs his hands over Sherlock’s skin, skimming over the quivering skin of his abdomen, his ribs, pushing his shirt up as he goes. It’s all flawless, pale skin and John wants to kiss every inch of it. Sherlock writhes underneath him, John can feel him hesitantly place his hands on John’s shoulders.

“You can-you can touch me,” John rasps, kissing a point underneath Sherlock’s jaw. It quickly turns wet and demanding, and Sherlock gasps when John bites the soft skin. He cants his hips towards John a little and this time John hisses, bearing down against Sherlock’s hips, shit, that feels _so good._

John’s fingers trail down his stomach, palms his erection. Sherlock moans, loud enough that John has to press a hand over his mouth. Sherlock’s eyes widen as soon as John’s palm makes connection with his lips, hips jerk against the hand at his crotch.

“Can I-” John whispers, fiddling with the zip. Christ, how many times had a he fantasized about this? Sherlock underneath him, flushed and panting, fingers digging into his back, begging for more? He looks like a wet dream, the way his hair stands on end from John’s hand, his shirt rucked up to his chest. He moves his hand away from Sherlock’s mouth so it’s cupping his cheek instead, thumb skimming slowly over his plump bottom lip. “I want to-” He brushes his knuckles against his erection and Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed. “Yes,” he breathes, hips canting. “Yes, okay.”

John wonders what he’d do if someone were to walk in, probably push them both off the bed, maybe, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that Sherlock’s back arches and his mouth falls open when you wrap a hand around his cock, and honestly, nothing else matters in that moment except making him come undone like that.

“Quiet,” he whispers in his ear, and gives him a slow tug. Sherlock gasps, eyes unseeing and unfocused, and the thought that no one has touched Sherlock like this, except him, that no one has _seen_ Sherlock like this- makes him so hard he sees stars. Sherlock’s mouth is hanging open, soft pants escaping him while John moves his hand over his prick.

 

“I- I- fuck,” Sherlock’s cock twitches in hand when he bites his jaw, so John does some more of that, makes Sherlock dig his fingers into his arms and struggle to bite down on his moans. John squeezes and Sherlock writhes underneath him, whispering, “John, _John-”_ but he’s so loud, and while John wants to hear him scream, they can’t do that right now.

So he cups a hand over his mouth again, kisses a bruise onto his collarbone, says while Sherlock fucks into his fist, “I need you to be quiet, and I don’t think you’re quite ready for a gag yet.” Sherlock’s body stills underneath his hand and he regards him with wide, dark eyes, and just like that, he’s spilling hot and wet over his fingers.

John drags his hand off and hears Sherlock breathe out slowly, still pulsing beneath his fingers. “Oh, fuck,” he whispers, chest rising and falling rapidly. “Fuck.”

Sherlock doesn’t usually swear, except at moments like these- and John made him do that. John made him say _fuck_ in that posh voice of his, and Christ- he’s really, _really_ hard and he’d come just _looking_ at Sherlock.

“I-” John moves his own hand to his crotch, and the barest touch of his fingertips is enough to make him gasp. “Do you mind if I-?”

Sherlock blinks owlishly at him, and suddenly, his own hand trails down from his arm to his wrist and then Sherlock’s palm is fitting over his cock, and John hisses. “Tell me what to do,” he says, and it’s so _hot_ that Sherlock is asking for _instructions,_ when he’s already battling an orgasm with Sherlock’s hand pressing against him like that.

“Just-” John stutters, and Sherlock inclines his head, as if this an experiment, and maybe to him,it is, and John isn’t sure if he should be offended or delighted at the idea. Sherlock’s delicate fingers pop open the button on his trousers, and John just looks at him, bright eyes and the determined tilt of his mouth- still swollen from John’s teeth. His hands are warm over his cock and when Sherlock wraps his fingers around him more firmly he asks, “Is this okay?”

John swallows, his hands on either side of Sherlock’s hips, one of them still sticky from Sherlock’s ejaculate.

“It’s more than okay,” he says honestly. “Just-”

“Like this?” he squeezes lightly, and John gasps.

“Yeah, that’s-fine.”

Sherlock’s movements grow more sure while he works his shaft, and then, he swipes his thumb over the head of his cock, looking interestedly at the bead of pre come on his skin.

Sherlock brings it to his mouth.

John stares at him, wonders if Sherlock would mind terribly if he came all over his shirt right now. “What-” he rasps, and Sherlock brings his hand to his cock again, as though he has no idea what he’s doing to John.

“Wanted to see what yours would taste like,” he tells him off handedly, and continues to jerk him off, movements precise and careful.

“Ah,” John says weakly, and comes, right on Sherlock’s stomach.

 

Sherlock kisses the expletives out of his mouth, hand curling over his nape to bring his face down, which would probably get come in his hair. But Sherlock lifts his hips up to press against John’s crotch and John ruts against him like an animal, biting down on Sherlock’s mouth while he rides the rest of his orgasm out.

“Easy,” Sherlock whispers against his mouth. Did he hurt him? Crap.

“Did I hurt you?” he croaks.

“No,” Sherlock reassures him, and kisses his jaw. “You’re just very drunk.”

That’s not an excuse, John thinks, and kisses Sherlock’s chin in apology. “You’re fucking fantastic,” he says, and Sherlock’s mouth tilts up at the corner.

“So are you,” he answers, and closes his eyes.

John wonders if he’s going to fall asleep now, which would make it very difficult to explain to people why there was a comatose naked boy in his bed. So he finds his wand from pile of bedclothes and cleans them both off as best as they can. Sherlock makes a contented noise, not unlike a cat, when John pulls up his pants and trousers.  
“I’ve fantasized about this, you know,” he whispers, eyes still closed, soft smile still in place.

John’s heart thuds against his chest while he fits himself beside Sherlock. “About what? This?”

“You. Touching me.” He mumbles something else, but doesn’t elaborate much after that. Which is a shame, because John would give _anything_ to know what Sherlock fantasized about.

John looks down at them both and realises they’re...spooning.

 

Maybe they shouldn’t be sleeping in the same bed like this, people will talk...but his head is already throbbing and Sherlock is so warm, and he looks disturbingly adorable, and his hair smells so good John wraps his arm more securely around his middle, and Sherlock wiggles against his chest, sleepy and drunk and hopefully, at least, sated.

                              

 

 

***

 

 


	2. the cruelest month

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t want me to tell anyone,” Sherlock finishes for him, realisation dawning.

> _“My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me._
> 
> _“Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak._
> 
> _“What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?_
> 
> _“I never know what you are thinking. Think.”_

 

 

Wakefulness creeps up on Sherlock slowly. His feet are cold. The feeling of being in a bed that isn’t his prickles at him, and when he cracks open his eyes, the hangings in the room are scarlet and gold. Sherlock stretches, rubs his hand across his face.

His head hurts a little, though that’s expected since he’s never been able to handle much alcohol. His mouth feels dry and he swallows, his throat itchy. Suddenly he becomes aware that he, in fact, is the only person on the bed.

Sherlock gets up carefully, his senses still not completely at full function. The sheets are tangled around his feet, and the space next to him in the bed is empty.

For a moment, Sherlock doesn’t understand why the sight causes his chest to twinge painfully, or why it makes him feel like a rag that’s been tossed out after it’s been used for what it was intended. He stares at the wrinkled sheets for a long time, until someone croaks, “Good morning.”

He looks up and sees James Potter in the opposite bed, blinking sleepily at him as he wears his glasses. His hair sticks up wildly at the back.

“Why is he sleeping in Watson’s bed?” someone asks behind him, and both him and Potter glance at the boy sitting on the next bed, his eyes confused, and as he looks at Sherlock, rather...accusing.

“Because the other beds weren’t empty, you wanker, have you considered that?” Potter answers for him, getting up and cracking his neck.

The boy doesn’t seem convinced and as Sherlock stares him, he curls his lip in mild disgust. Sherlock is still half asleep, he can’t understand why someone would look at him with such thinly veiled dislike.

“There must be a reason why Watson’s not in the bed himself,” he says, looking at Sherlock but speaking as though the sentence is not directed at him, as though Sherlock isn’t important enough to be spoken to.

Sherlock wants to tell him that John _did_ sleep next to him, he’s fairly certain of that- he can’t have imagined the way his arms had curled around his waist or the way his nose was buried in his hair or-

_oh._

“He probably went to get breakfast, Aubrey, why don’t you drop it?” Potter is standing now, pulling on a pair of jeans over his pyjamas, looking mildly irritated. Sherlock realises with a start that he’s...being defended.

“Were you here last night?” the boy asks.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies evenly. His voice sounds awful.

“We called him,” Potter says behind him. “He’s our friend, and we called him, now for Merlin’s sake either go back to sleep or shut up, I’ve got a bloody awful headache.”

“I’ll leave,” Sherlock says hurriedly, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. If John had been here instead of running off first thing in the morning, he could have explained things himself. Clearly John doesn’t want to be the one stuck with the task of explaining why exactly Sherlock was sleeping in his bed- not that he would tell anyone the truth anyway.

He kicks the sheets off his feet and gets off the bed, not bothering to look for his socks. They must have slipped off last night, what with all the pawing. He runs a shaky hand through his hair to move it away from his eyes and he’s barely taken a step in the space between the two beds that he stumbles over something and falls, flat on his face, pain rushing into his chin and his chest.

There’s a sudden movement and someone is grabbing him by his biceps, pulling him up. Potter is in front of him, glasses askew and looking concerned. He doesn’t say anything, just straightens his collar. Sherlock’s legs feel like jelly, his cheeks flaming- _what is he even doing here-_

“What’d you have to do that for?” Potter demands of the boy named Aubrey, pushing Sherlock behind him.

“I didn’t do anything, he tripped,” Aubrey sneers, platinum blond hair falling into his eyes, and then Potter is curling his fingers into his shirt and pulling him up.

“Don’t be a git,” he snaps. “That was uncalled for.”

“What’s uncalled for is a bleeding fag sleeping in this room, Potter!”

Sherlock stands there quietly, watches Potter’s fingers twitch as though he wants to land a punch on Aubrey’s jaw. It’s not the first time someone’s called him a fag, in fact that’s a more milder term for some of the insults that have been hurled at him the past five years. He usually gets away with it without a beating, because he’s quick with magic but now he doesn’t feel like doing anything. Aubrey’s disgust plasters itself to his skin like a disease, and he feels empty, somehow. The hangover makes his head throb.

“Don’t you call him that,” Potter whispers, furious. “You say that again and I’ll fucking break your teeth, and I won’t need a wand for that.”

Aubrey’s mouth twists into an ugly scowl, and for a moment Sherlock thinks one of them _is_ going to land a blow. But Potter lets go of him roughly, as though he were something unclean. They glare at each for a second longer before Aubrey turns around and pushes past Sherlock roughly, making him stumble again.

“Well, that wasn’t surprising,” Potter mumbles underneath his breath after he’s left.

Both him and Sherlock stand in front of each other awkwardly until Sherlock clears his throat and mutters, “You- you didn’t need to do that.”

“Maybe not,” Potter shrugs. He bends down and picks up his jumper, which has looks quite bedraggled. He dusts it off and hands it back to him. Sherlock quickly scans it for any signs of semen but John probably cleaned it off last night. He can barely remember what they did in the first place. “John probably _did_ go off to get breakfast, though, so- er. You shouldn’t worry about that.”

Sherlock wants to laugh.

“I’m not worried,” he says instead, meeting Potter’s gaze. It’s a lie, but he won’t notice. “I’ll just-leave.”

“Yeah, sure. See you around, mate.” he claps him on the shoulder and it feels...nice. Not the way John makes him feel when he touches him, but still, nice.

“Thank you,” Sherlock tells him, with some difficulty, and the turns around and walks away without waiting for an answer.

He wants to get out of this common room. That rumpled bed in mocking him, the open pity in Potter’s eyes makes him feel flayed open, vulnerable in a way that he isn’t used to- _wasn’t_ used to, not until John said that he fancied him- and-

 

***

 

The owlery is cold, open, full of wintry sunlight. It makes him feel a little better. Athena flew down as soon as she saw him and perched on his shoulder, not nipping him- she’d never been very open with her affection- but rubbed her feathery head against his cheekbone.

She flew away in disgust when Sherlock took out the cigarette from his pocket and lit it with his wand.

He hasn’t smoked in a while, but the burn is still familiar. The smoke is pale blue, changes colour every minute- he watches it for a while, thinking.

He has only himself to blame, really- it’s not like he should have expected anything better. He’d wanted a one time thing. He’d gotten a one time thing. In the scheme of things, he’s emerged rather lucky.

Sherlock exhales a cloud of smoke, annoyed that he doesn’t have any classes today- nothing to distract him, then. Maybe he’ll just stay here, then, until he hears someone coming. He leans against the stone, staring out into the sky. It’s pale and colourless, oddly depressing.

 

“Sherlock.”

The cigarette nearly falls from his mouth in his haste to turn around. John stands a little further away from him, his eyes wide and nervous.

“John.”

His mouth curls up in a slight smile when Sherlock says his name. “Hey.”

Suddenly Sherlock becomes very aware of the bruise high up on his neck, just below the slope of his jaw. The slight soreness around his hips where John dug in his fingers. Something wide and gaping opens up in the pit of his stomach, and he wants to close the distance between them, urge John closer- kiss him again.

He opens his mouth to say something normal like _good morning_ or maybe sarcastic like _So did you get breakfast_ but instead he says “I missed you this morning.”

He regrets it. How _stupid_ of him to say that. John’s cheeks flush, and the expression on his face- guilt. Clearly, evidently guilt and Sherlock’s not sure if that is the emotion he wants to arouse in John.

“Shit, Sherlock I’m-” he steps closer to Sherlock until he’s close enough to touch him, and he raises his hand as if to brush his fingers across his cheek or some other display of affection- but seems to think better of it and his hand falls to his side, curled up into a fist.

“I didn’t mean to say that,” Sherlock blurts. His cigarette falls from his fingers.

“No, you did, and I know- I-” John looks up at him and this time he does touch him- one hand against the side of his neck, thumb gently swiping over the bruise. His gaze darkens slightly when he looks at it.

“John-”

“Can I kiss you?"

That wasn’t what Sherlock was expecting, but it’s definitely what he wants- what he’s always thinking about. Instead of answering John he bends and gently presses his lips against John. _Yes._

John sighs, the tension in his body melting as he takes Sherlock by the waist and pulls him closer.

He hasn’t had much practise with this kind of thing- kissing- nothing, really- but he knows that John is aroused by the simple touch by the way his fingers dig into his waist, the way he kisses him back, a little harder, a little rougher. He slides his hand up to his jaw and takes him by the chin, angling his face to kiss him deeper.

“I want you so much,” he whispers against his lips, and Sherlock hates himself for how those words affect him. He wraps his arms around John’s shoulders and opens his mouth, lets John slide his tongue in. He wants it, wants John inside him like this-but somehow it feels as though Sherlock is paying this as a price for something.

When John pulls away he’s breathing hard, forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock wants to keep him there- thread his fingers into John’s hair and tell him, _stay, would you?_

“I’m sorry,” John mumbles against his jumper, his arms still around him. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left like that.”

“No,” Sherlock agrees, and because John is right here, places his palm carefully on his back.

“I have to ask you something,” John continues, raising his head. He tucks a lock of hair behind Sherlock’s ear, which makes want cackle at the base of his spine. He’s not used to being touched like this- a sexual touch he can understand- but this easy affection- it opens up a craving in his gut he didn’t even know he had. “It’s a little unfair, but- I just. You can always,” John swallows. “You can always say no.”

Sherlock frowns. “What are you asking me, John?”

“I’d really- I’d really appreciate it. If you-” he licks his lips. “if you-”

“You don’t want me to tell anyone,” Sherlock finishes for him, realisation dawning. It should have come to him sooner. How foolish of him to think John would have anything else to ask.

Still, he hopes John will shake his head- laugh at him fondly, maybe kiss him again. No such luck.

He bites his lip. “Yeah.”

Sherlock lets out a sound that he meant as a laugh. It comes out far more sarcastic than he had meant it. “That’s- not surprising.”

“Sherlock, you know you can-”

“You know I won’t say no. You _know_ that.” Sherlock shuts his eyes to try and quell the desperation in his voice. He’s not sure it’ll work. John’s arm is still around him and he’s not sure he still wants it there, whether he still wants John touching him right now.

“I’m sorry,” John says helplessly.

Sherlock sighs. The act seems to take out all the energy in his body. He slumps forward, presses his face into the crook of John’s neck. He wants to be able to do this- all the time- touch John without inhibitions, and not just in a sexual context. Just like this-easy comfort given and taken without asking.  “So you’ve said.” his voice is muffled against John’s skin.

John immediately holds him, tightens his embrace around Sherlock. Yes this- exactly this.

“Fine,” he finally decides. “Whatever you want, John.”

John exhales a breath of relief. It ruffles his hair just slightly, and then he feels lips against the shell of his ear, gentle and chaste.

He folds his arms over John’s shoulder, holds him tighter.

It shouldn’t feel as good as it does, and yet.

  
  
  
  
  


***

Sometimes when John pulls Sherlock into a broom closet in between classes, and kisses him, he feels like he’s falling. Sherlock’s lips are always soft against his own and he’s always warm, and his lithe body fits perfectly under his hands. Sherlock gasps and keens and John holds him through every moment and he wonders if adoration is the word he would use.

Sometimes Sherlock insults him because John misses something _of importance_ and he explains the world through his eyes in that way of his- that makes everything seem so much more beautiful than it is, makes him wonder how much more different life would be if he looked at things the way Sherlock did. Sherlock fixes the vibrating problem on his broom with a finger and later on leans down close to him and whispers, “ _Give me a ride?”_ in his ear, hot and hard against his back, demanding fingers curling around his wrist.

People call him weird or freakish, unemotional, sometimes, and John rules them all out and decides he’s _brilliant_ and then the question comes to him, bright neon letters flashing before his eyes- _What are you doing?_

What indeed, because Sherlock doesn’t deserve this. Carried around like a dirty secret in his pocket, taken out when he wants. Someone as clever and fantastic as Sherlock should be with someone who isn’t scared of kissing him in public or pulling him closer- slipping an arm around his waist should have been an easy display of affection, but it’s only when they’re alone that John touches him properly- and Sherlock doesn’t say no.

He should.

He definitely should.

But he doesn’t, so John keeps going.

***

Sherlock feels a sudden pull at his wrist when he’s walking out of Charms. One moment he’s in the stream of students heading down for their next class, the next moment John’s fingers are tight around his arm and he’s pulling him down the corridor.

“Oh hello, John,” he says.

John doesn’t say anything, just turns around him and shoots him his crooked smile. The smile that says _I’m going to do things to you and you’re going to love it_ and Sherlock feels as though his legs will not be able to hold him up anymore.

“There’s an empty classroom here,” he tells him, and Sherlock clears this throat a few times.

“Is that so?” he croaks.

“Oh yeah,” John says smugly, and finally- blessedly- turns the corner and takes them both into a small, empty classroom with the desks in a disorganised row.

“Hmm- they used to have Defence against the Dark Arts here- mmph!” Sherlock’s words are kissed out of his mouth by John, who has him against the wall in a matter of seconds, tongue between his lips and erection pressing, hot and demanding, against his thigh.

“Too fast?” he breathes against his lips. One hand is curled around his bicep, the other resting low on his back, and Sherlock moans, failing to convey to John that if only he’d slide his hand _lower-_

“No,” he replies, clutching at the front of John’s robes. “No- just- more, I think.”

“Let’s get these off-” John mutters. pushing Sherlock’s robes off him. They fall to the floor in a lump, and Sherlock looks expectantly at John to take off his.

“Yeah, babe, give me a mo-” he jokes, and shrugs it off his shoulders. Sherlock’s mouth waters- John is so compact and strong underneath his layers of clothes- muscles taunt and golden- a sprinkle of hair on his sternum leading down into his pants- he wants to take off his jumper and his vest just so he can look at him again.

John seems to read his mind, raises on eyebrow at him. “I know,” he says, kissing him softly in the corner of his mouth. “No time today. You think I don’t want you out of these clothes, gorgeous?” for emphasis, John slides a finger down his throat,  slips the first two buttons on his shirt free of their holes. How does he do that so _fast?_ His hand slips inside, resting against his chest, palm warm. “I want to touch you _so badly._ ”

Sherlock squirms, pressing his erection up against John’s. “Well do _something,”_ he pleads, grabbing John by the elbow and bringing him closer. “Anything.”

“Don’t say anything,” John warns, his eyes dark. His hand moves away from his chest and up his neck, twists into his hair. “I don’t think you’d be able to take _anything.”_

John could be quite right, as Sherlock is sure he will orgasm just from John’s _voice._ Still, he gasps, “Try me,” even as John tugs on his bottom lip with his teeth, eliciting something that sounds awfully like a yelp from his mouth.

He can feel John smirk against his mouth, the self satisfaction rolling off him in waves. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d like to do to you,” he says raggedly, teeth scraping against his jaw. “Couldn’t concentrate during Transfiguration.”

Sherlock leans his head back against the wall, hisses when John bites down. “What- what were you thinking?”

“How I’d like to snog you so hard you wouldn’t be able to think _straight,”_ John tells him. He’s found the base of his throat and is now speaking against his skin. “You’d make all these noises and I’d have to kiss you just to get you to keep quiet, fuck-” his hips roll instinctively against John’s, their erections brushing against each other.

“Ah,” Sherlock moans. “Keep talking. What- what else?”

John just laughs, wrapping a hand around his nape to force his head down. “Why don’t I just show you?” he offers, and Sherlock’s eyes widen.

“Okay,” he agrees, and John nips his earlobe between his teeth, whispers, _good boy._

Then John drops to his knees and Sherlock wonders if his cock will burst right through his pants. John cups his hands around Sherlock’s hips, looking up at Sherlock from underneath his lashes.

“I want to try something,” he explains.  He’s pulling Sherlock’s shirt out of trousers, trailing his fingers across his skin. “Will you let me?”

Sherlock desperately wants to ask _try what_ just so he can hear John say it- but he just swallows and nods once, quick and eager.

“Say yes, then,” John orders, and flicks open the button on his trousers.

“Y-yes,” Sherlock obeys shakily, and John smiles up at him, cheeks bright and hair mussed, slowly pulls down his trousers, take his cock out- hard and dripping.

“Oh God,” Sherlock moans, at the first touch of John’s fingers. He tips his head against the wall, tries to concentrate on the ceiling instead- the darkened torches, the slight cracks that suggest how long this room hasn’t been used in-

“Oh, no, Sherlock,” John’s hand wraps more insistently around him. “Look at me.” His voice is hard, not supposed to breach argument.

“If I look at you I’ll come,” Sherlock said beseechingly, but then suddenly John’s hands are gone and Sherlock will surely _die_ if John does not touch him.

He looks down, and John smirks proudly, and holding his gaze, holds the base of his cock in his hand and slides his tongue down the shaft. Slowly.

Sherlock whimpers at the sight of it, his cock twitching against John’s mouth, John taking just the tip of it between his lips, then slipping his mouth midway. Sherlock has never been fellated before, and therefore is unsure whether he should be taking notes and cataloguing his reactions and John’s efforts so that he can do the same for John later but _OH FUCK OH MERLIN -_ but his cock in trapped in delicious, warm wet heat and how does he-

_“_ Eyes on me, Sherlock,” John commands, before taking his cock in his mouth again. Sherlock feels his throat spasm as he takes him in deeper, swallowing around his girth. Sherlock isn’t exactly large- or small, in that case, but it still surprises him that John can take him like that, suck him so delightfully without choking. When the final wave of puberty hits he expects his genitals will grow larger but- _oooohhhhhh shit_ why is he even thinking about then when John Watson is _sucking his dick_

Each time Sherlock rolls his hips into John’s mouth John obliges, although Sherlock can see a glimmer of tears in his eyes- but they don’t roll down his cheeks like porn would have you assume. Sherlock considers briefly that this must be painful for John- he shouldn’t be pushing so hard- but then John hand slips around to his back and squeezes his arse and his fingers immediately find their way into his hair instead. He tugs, John moans around his cock.

“John, please, please, please,” he begs, and he sounds like he feels- broken, pulled loose from his roots.

John strokes his hand down his thigh in what he probably assumes is a soothing gesture but only serves his cock to jerk in John’s mouth. “ _John,”_ he gasps, probably pushing John even more against his cock, but he can’t- can’t control it-

“John, I’m going to-” _I’m going to come in your mouth,_ he means to say, but the sentence dissolves into meaningless moans while his hips continue to cant against John’s mouth. It doesn’t take long for John to know what exactly Sherlock was going to say.

“Mmmm,” John murmurs, the sound vibrating against his cock.

Sherlock sees white as he empties himself into John, his mouth falling open, noises he’s not sure he’s ever made before spilling forth.

“Oh god, Oh god,” he moans.

John pulls back only when Sherlock has stopped spurting, and he sits back on his haunches, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Sherlock lets out a shaky breath and unable to stand anymore, slides to the floor in a heap. John is immediately on him, smoothing back his hair and kissing his cheek, while his other hand does up his trousers and vanishes the traces of come away with his wand. Sherlock is too dazed to follow all of his movements, just barely feels the smooth glide of John’s hand over his body, straightening his collar and fixing his hair- until he finds himself pulled against John’s chest, sprawled half over his lap.

He doesn’t say anything, instead letting Sherlock get his breath back while he lies, half comatose- against John. He can feel John’s hand moving up and down his back, gently, slowly. His pants are dry. His tie is straight. Sherlock doesn’t want to break the spell- he feels safe here, warm and cocooned in the circle of John’s arms.

John’s fingers are in his hair now, gently massaging. No one’s done that to him in a while. “Mmm.”

“Feel good?” John asks. He sounds so...fond.

“Mmmm.”

“Should I do this instead of a blow job, then?”

Sherlock’s eyes spring open. He looks up at John, who’s eyes are on him, soft and amused. “I...I preferred the blow job,” Sherlock confesses.

John laughs, open and boyish- just the way Sherlock likes, and squeezes him. It feels _so good._ He enjoys this better- actually, but admitting that would mean admitting how much he’s in love with John and perhaps that is not the best idea at this moment.

“We have to get back to class soon,” John reminds him quietly, and Sherlock makes a noise of assent, snuggling deeper into John.

“How did you know this was a Defence against the Dark Arts class?” he asks after a while.

“Scorch marks on the walls- too scattered to be the work of a trained adult. It’s happened several times and has been magicked away afterward,” Sherlock says sleepily. “You can still see traces of it on the wall. Discolouration on the wall over there- see how it’s paler? There used to be a cupboard there, the brown stains on the floor probably mean it was inhabited by a boggart- it’s been used for practise, you can see the scuffles on the floor suggestive of running around- and just in that specific place. Just one shelf at the back, very few desks. Definitely a practical classroom- can’t be charms, too small, and Charms usually has the most students- not Transfiguration either, it’s too damaged. Nothing else fits. Ergo.”

“God, I never get tired of hearing that,” John says, awed.

Something expands in Sherlock’s chest, warm, comforting, amazing, brilliant. “You are impressed by the most mediocre things, John,” he mumbles. “The average mind is always boggled by the obvious.”

“Yeah well, obvious to _you,”_ John points out.

 

Eventually they make it out of the room, John making sure the door is exactly the way they left it. “Honestly, John,” Sherlock huffs. “No one will notice, I assure you.”

“The walls have ears, Sherlock,” John tells him gravely. “Literal ears, even.”

Sherlock giggles, and John shoots him a look that suggests his statement wasn’t meant to be responded to in such a manner. Sherlock ignores him.

“I’ll walk you to class,” John offers him gruffly, even though he still seems to be offended by Sherlock’s callous treatment of his concern for proper door-locking etiquette. Sherlock finds this adorable.

They meet someone on the way, one of John’s many friends- someone from his team, Sherlock recognizes. John greets him, and he asks, “Where have you two been?” He looks at Sherlock oddly, hyis eyes flick downwards like he suspects Sherlock of something. He’s not sure if he’s imagining it or not.

“Needed help with Astronomy, you know how clever Holmes is,” he lies smoothly, the crooked smile never leaving his face.

It irks Sherlock, even though he knows it’s stupid. He had agreed to this. Consented. Of course John wouldn’t suddenly open up to this boy and tell him that Sherlock’s cock had been down his throat less than ten minutes ago- of course he wouldn’t. But does John really find it so easy to slip their relationship under the carpet like that? No floundering, no shifty glances? John says, “We have class on the same floor, thought we’d go together, where are you off to?” so easily as if the past month hadn’t even existed.

How is so easy for him to dismiss an indescribable amount of pining and wanting and _not having…?_

“Sherlock? You there?” John waves a hand in front of his face.

“Of course I’m here,” Sherlock answers, tries for a smile. Fails. The conversation is evidently over. The boy is gone.

“Are you alright?” John’s brows furrow in concern.

_No?_ “I’m fine, John,” he looks down. “Listen, I’ll- I just remembered this thing I’ve got to do. I’ll see you at dinner? Or after dinner, probably?”

_Furtive handjobs in a broom closet? Fourth floor, secret corridor on the left? After everyone’s gone to bed, hmm?_

“Yeah, whatever-” John answers, still bewildered. “Are you-”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock says quickly, and turns around to leave but John catches him around his elbow, turns him around. His gaze shifts quickly around them to make sure no one is looking before he says, “You’re fine? Sherlock, I know this is hard, but I’m-”

“It’s _fine,”_ Sherlock insists, perhaps with more force than necessary. He slips his arm out of John’s grip. “Honestly John, you needn’t concern yourself with things like this.”

John looks hurt, although the expression is quick and flickering. “Of course I need to,” he argues. “I don’t want-”

“I’ll see you later,” Sherlock interrupts him, and turns around, walking away- before John can ask him any more questions.

***

 

He’s not sure why it hadn’t ocurred to him sooner, it should have been _obvious-_ but perhaps being with John makes him forget the details, the clues that stare at him in the face.

He’d met John after dinner, of course- and John had apologised- _again,_ held him close in some dark corner of the castle and kissed him - _I’m sorry, love, I’m trying, I am._ And Sherlock had melted into the embrace and felt just a little bit better.

_“Let me make it up to you,”_ John had whispered in his ear, and he was on his knees for the second time that day and Sherlock was certainly, certainly not saying no.

But then when John had been putting him back together again, the reason for John’s awe-inspiring skill in this specific sexual act had flashed before his eyes in bright, red letters.

 

_He’s done this before._

 

Sherlock stares at the ceiling as he lays in bed, sleepless. The sentence keeps haunting him.

 

_He’s done this before. He’s done this before. With a boy._

_With some_ other _boy._

_Not you._

***

 

He wants to ask. He desperately wants to ask.

Jealousy simmers constantly in his stomach, threatening to blow over at any moment. He tortures himself with images of some other dark haired, slender boy with bright eyes, hanging off John’s arm like some-some _tart-_ it’s unfair, he knows, this level of hatred he has towards this faceless character, this undeniably _male_ person who John has probably fucked in the library, or the bathroom- he seems to love it there, Sherlock thinks bitterly- snogged him in the astronomy tower and _how could Sherlock not have figured this out?_

Had John made this agreement with him too, then? _We’ll have sex but no one can know about this, and when we’re through we can go on with our lives._

It leaves him feeling sick and oddly used, even though John never- _never_ does anything to him without his full hearted agreement, and he can’t think of any time when he hadn’t been less than willing- but it still makes him feel like one of many, a notch on a bedpost.

He sits in the stands and watches John practise Quiddich with his team, his stomach fluttering each time John performs a particularly difficult catch, each time he almost fell off his broom. Afterwards John kisses him in the showers when everyone’s gone and brings him off with his hand nice and slow. Later they join Elliot and James and Rose to sneak into the kitchens where the skive hot chocolate and pumpkin tarts off the house elves.

John remembers how much he likes macaroons and presses one against Sherlock’s lips.

 

He catches Weasley looking at him with an odd look in her eye. He recognizes it. Pity.

 

He pities himself, with the way he feels for John, and John having been through all of this before with someone who _wasn’t him._

***

John gets jealous _a lot._ Even of Victor. Sherlock had to pull him away lest he start gnashing his teeth at Victor when he had visited Sherlock outside Charms to give him Arithmancy notes. Victor was only explaining what he had written in the margin, but John was glowering and glaring and looking generally displeased.

“He’s just my friend,” Sherlock had promised him, resting his hands on John’s shoulders, rubbing soothing circles against his shirt. “Just my friend, John, and I don’t have many friends, so you can be sure I know who they are.”

John shakes his head, looking embarrassed. “I know, I know, I’m sorry.” He kisses Sherlock’s cheek. “It’s just that you’re so...so brilliant, I don’t know if I’m good enough for you.”

Sherlock is appalled by this sentiment, he doesn’t know how to reply. “You’re...you’re perfect,” he stutters. “Why would you say that?”

“Shhh,” John buries his head in Sherlock neck and wraps his arms around his waist. “I’m just going to hold you for a while, will you let me?”

“Of course,” Sherlock had replied quietly, hesitantly slipping an arm around John’s shoulder. It was at moment like these when he wasn’t sure exactly _what_ they were doing, or if John knew that this was asking too much of him- when John leaves- how is Sherlock supposed to get over this? If casual sex is what John wanted, why does he ask things like this of him? Sherlock is confused, and he wants this, he wants this so terribly so he allows himself to be held.

***

John is unhappy about something.

Sherlock notices it in the terse way he deals with his team, his commands barked out instead of the polite, firm way he usually delivers them. When no one is watching his shoulders slump and he repeatedly rubs his hand across his eyes. It takes him longer than usual to catch the snitch, and had this been an actual match, Gryffindor would have sorely lost.

He hadn’t met him all morning, he had classes and while he has no qualms about skiving them to be with John, John had pointed out that he shouldn’t and besides, this is NEWT year and he shouldn’t be skiving classes himself, either. Sherlock had found this dreadfully boring and had sauntered away from John, swaying his hips far too much than he normally would. Let him suffer, he thought.

But he knew John would be practising now so he’d come to the pitch to watch. And something has happened between the time he had left John and now, and whatever that was had left John angry and upset.

Practise is over soon and Sherlock watches as John says something to his team, uses his wand to draw something in the air. Strategies. Plans. Schemes. John is awfully good at them, isn’t he? He banishes the unexpectedly bitter thought.

John comes to see him after, a smidge of dirt across his cheek and a tiny cut under his lip. Sherlock longs to kiss it.

“You have no idea how glad I am to see you,” he breathes, swiping his hair away from his forehead. Sherlock’s eyes are drawn to that tiny mark just above his collar, that he’d made with his teeth. It’s been a few days but it still hasn’t faded. “I missed you the whole morning.”

“So did I,” Sherlock replies, and he’d love to grab John by the front of his robes and just kiss him, make him feel better, tell him, _I know you’re sad today, please tell me why. let me help._

“Can we...can we go somewhere for a bit, do you think?” John holds out his hand. Sherlock looks at his outstretched fingers, checks behind John to see if anyone is watching them. John never holds his hand in public.

“Sherlock, it’s fine,” John assures him, and just grabs him around the wrist and pulls him up.

“You never-”

“No one’s here, they’ve left for lunch. Come on, let’s go to the Forest.”

They don’t exactly go inside the forest, but far enough inside for it to be private enough. John doesn’t talk while they walk, and Sherlock doesn’t ask; not yet, anyway. His shoulders are tight and the line of his mouth is straight and firm and Sherlock wants desperately to hold him, but he doesn’t. Their fingers brush against each other and John easily slips his fingers through Sherlock’s hand. The leather of his quiddich gloves is cool and supple against his skin.

“Practise was shite, wasn’t it,” he finally says, around a rough exhale.

“I don’t particularly understand Quiddich,” Sherlock responds. Leaves crunch under their feet.

John looks up at him, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You understand it just fine, you’ve been carrying around that book with you for ages.”

“I’m not an expert yet.”  
“You don’t have to be an expert at everything, love.”

“Well of course not everything, John, that would be an appalling waste of brain space, surely you know that.”

“But Quiddich is important?” John asks, smiling, stopping to lean against a tree.

“Of course.” John’s fingers curl around his wrist as he pulls him closer. Thumb against his skin, rubbing circles. Sherlock brushes the dirt off John’s cheek with his knuckles.

“And why’s that?”

“You love Quiddich, I want to know everything about it.” _I want to know about everything you love,_ he wants to say.

John’s eyes grow soft and fond, as they do sometimes- the look that warms Sherlock down to the tips of his toes. Feeling like this is intoxicating- is this what it’s like for people with normal relationships?

“C’mere,” he says quietly, slides his hands up his shoulders and around his jaw, cradling his face, kissing him.

It’s soft and chaste, tinged with something heavy. “John, what is it? Tell me,” he finally demands against his mouth. “You’re upset. Why are you upset?”

John sighs, pulling away, rests his head against the trunk. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“It’s your sister. You know I can tell.” Sherlock doesn’t know how to comfort people, but he knows that John wants neither sympathy nor pity- he in incapable of showing both, either way.

“It-s yeah, it’s my sister,” he confesses, resigned. “Well, not really my sister, it’s...god, I don’t know how to explain this.” He scrapes a hand over his eyes, keeps it there, like it’s easier to explain to complete darkness.

Sherlock keeps quiet.

John finally looks at him, his eyes slightly red. “Well, you know what my dad was like, right?”

“I have a fair estimate, yes.”

John smiles, but it’s a ragged, tired thing. “Sit down, I’ll tell you a story.”

Sherlock obeys, and they sit, backs against the tree  trunk. It’s cold, and when Sherlock rubs his hands together, John takes off his gloves and hands them to him.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock reassures him, but John just clasps his wrists and pulls the gloves over his fingers.

“My mum was a brilliant witch,” he says, not meeting his eyes, fussing with the buckle on the gloves. “But when she met my dad, she obviously had to hide it.” Satisfied with his efforts John lets go of his hand and tips his head towards the sky again, speaking to the clouds. “He loved her, I think, at some point of time. I’ve seen old photos. She looked happy.” His fingers twist where they’re resting on his bent knees. He shrugs. “Maybe she was. But then, I was born, and they had to get married- and mum had to tell him about herself. I suppose he reconciled himself to the fact in the beginning, but it got to him after a while. I remember him shouting, blaming her for everything wrong, calling her a freak. He didn’t understand magic, Sherlock. And my mum- my mum still loved him. I don’t know how. Then Harry was born, and I think he got better. For a while. I don’t know if he loved any of us, not really. It kept bothering him, what my mum was. He’d freak out if she made the kettle boil itself, or if she folded the clothes with magic, he kept calling it unnatural.” He rolls his eyes, makes quotations in the air. “Devil’s work, I heard him call it once.” John goes silent for a minute, staring at something Sherlock can’t find. He swallows. “Then he started hitting her.”

“She didn’t leave, did she?” Sherlock asks, quiet.

John shakes his head. “Not for a long time.”

Sherlock doesn’t find it difficult to fathom actually, not being able to let go of something you love desperately. Sometimes it seems like the price you pay in order to still feel it beneath your hands. He can’t claim to understand what John’s mother must have felt, he’s never been abused as a child and couldn’t imagine someone he loved laying a hand on him. If John hurt him, would he stay? Difficult to answer even though he might have tried. To stay.

“He made her believe she deserved it. I think I hate him the most for that.” John’s voice sound blank. Expressionless.

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. He knows what John doesn’t want him to do- so he doesn’t offer sympathy. What he wants to do is hold him close, climb between his ribs and suck out his sadness, swallow it down himself so John would never, ever feel that way again.

Instead he finds John’s hand curled over his knee and places his on top of it. John laces their fingers together like he was waiting for it, like he was desperate to hold on to something. His grip isn’t painful, but it is tight. “When did she kill herself?”

“I was in my second year. Harry was...seven, I think. I thought I’d have to lie to her, tell her some shite about heaven or something. But she knew. She said she couldn’t see why mummy hadn’t done it sooner, because daddy was so horrible.”

Sherlock carefully, gently, places his head on John’s shoulder, nestles it against the crook of his neck. _I’m here,_ he tries to say. _And I’m not going anywhere._

John doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t pull away either. “And then...well, then the police found out. They’re like the muggle-”

“I know what the police are,” Sherlock huffs impatiently, immediately regretting it. But it seems to be the right thing to say, he feels John breathe out a little laugh, the tension in his shoulders slipping out somewhat.”

“Of course you do,” he agrees. “Well, they arrested him, sent him to jail. That’s like Azkaban- but I suppose you know already. I think the Ministry intervened at that point, because Dad was going on about magic and witches- I don’t remember much. They sent us to an aunt- Aunt Tracey. She’s a squib, third or fourth cousin as far as I know. She has four other kids, none of them magical, by the way. Neither is Harry, though, so I’d thought she’d fit right in. She doesn’t really like it there- never has.”

Sherlock can understand. He’s never fit in anywhere, either. He knows the feeling too well, restless, anxious, desperate. “Your aunt- Tracey- she isn’t very enthusiastic about keeping her now, is she?”

John shrugs. “It’s the money. It’s always the money.”

Sherlock would willingly offer John all the money he had; his parents could afford taking care of another child well enough. He could say it- _let me help-_ but John is too proud for that. “What will you do, then?”

“Beg, I suppose. She won’t turn Harry out or anything- it’d make her look awful. She’ll wait for me to be consumed by guilt, so I’ll take Harry off her hands.”

“John, I-” he starts, but John shushes him.

“You don’t have to do anything.”

“But I want to help. Let me help.”  
“Sherlock, it’s fine. I’ll figure something out. I always do.”

Sherlock doesn’t want John to need to figure things out when he’s _right there._ Still, he doesn’t want to push John into a decision based on guilt. So he does the easier thing; kisses him softly on his cheek.

_I’m here if you need me,_ he wants to say. He hopes John can understand.

John turns his head so that his lips meet Sherlock's, and before Sherlock can kiss back, John's arm hooks around his waist and he pulls Sherlock towards him and into his lap.   
"John-"

"Shh," he says, pulling him closer, spreading his legs so that Sherlock's crotch presses against his.

John kisses him roughly, with teeth, asks between breaths, "Do you want me to stop?"

Sherlock shakes his head, "No."

 

 

***

John’s time is divided between studying for NEWTs and studying Sherlock. Tracey’s words haunt his ears at the most unexpected of times, and he knows he can’t escape it forever. So he works hard. Sherlock quizzes him, sometimes helps him with his homework. The other Gryffindors seem to have become accustomed to Sherlock’s presence. Sometimes they ask Sherlock for help with essays, books, how to master a particular spell. Sherlock scoffs, insults them, but helps them out anyway.

When no one is in the dorm, like weekend afternoons or Hogsmeade trips, John and Sherlock will sprawl out on John’s bed and Sherlock will explain Transfiguration to him, or fix his essays. John stares at him endlessly, Sherlock’s pale fingers moving across parchment, the shape of his mouth when he concentrates, the curve of his lip around the end of a quill.

There are moments when he kisses him, climbs over him and kisses the breath out of him, until Sherlock is panting hard against his mouth, hands scrabbling at the front of his shirt and hips shifting restlessly against his. Sometimes it’s softer, no rush- gentle, John’s hands cupped at the back of his head, cradling Sherlock’s lean body against his own.

Sherlock’s eyes, gazing up at him, hazy sunlight falling on his face. It makes his eyes change colour, silver to blue to green to silver again, but the way Sherlock looks at him is always the same- curious, wide awake and wondering.

John, poised over him, thinks of blue skies and rivers and mermaids singing in foreign tongues, open paths through forests with no ending. He runs his knuckle against the edge of a sharp cheekbone. Sherlock smiles at him, in a way that he never smiles at anyone, in a way that John is so sure he doesn’t deserve. It’s fond and sweet makes him look his age for once. He looks so beautiful like that, blurred around the edges, soft.

 

John kisses him because he doesn’t know how else to explain the way he feels, a tide rising in his chest with no place to fall. Sherlock holds him like he’s drowning, opening up like he doesn’t do for anyone else and John feels so _sick_ with himself.

 

***

 

Mycroft’s letters get steadily more suggestive. Sherlock rips them in half each time, except when he touches the tip of his wand to the parchment and burns them instead.

 

***

Sherlock meets Aubrey in the library. He barely expects it when he smoothly snatches the book he’s taking out of the shelf right out of his hand.

He turns around to see him flicking through the book nonchalantly, straight blonde hair falling over his eyes, obscuring the line of his gaze.

“Is there a problem?” Sherlock asks, reaching for the book. Aubrey pulls it out of his reach without even looking up. When he does look up, Sherlock is taken aback by the ice in his gaze.

He frowns. “I haven’t slept in the dorm since the last time you tripped me, I don’t understand why you’re looking at me like that.”

“Looking at you like what?” he cocks his head. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Alexis Aubrey, that’s your name, isn’t it? Anyway. Stop wasting my time and give me my book.”

The thin line of his mouth turns into a mocking smirk. “I can see why he likes you.”

They are familiar, but it’s different from the last time he heard the words. This time they’re meant to cut deep, hurt him. Sherlock is used to people speaking to him like that.

“Clever, too,” Aubrey continues, looking at the spine of the book. “Oh you don’t do this until after school. Tell me, is that how this arrangement works?”

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock feels uncomfortable. Aubrey’s eyes are grey, like his, and there’s nothing but contempt in them. He doesn’t want to get into a fight- he _never_ want to get into a fight- but the line of his shoulders tells him that he’s readying himself to pounce on Sherlock.

“Your…” he makes a face. Holds up one hand and flexes his fingers in the form of an airquote. “...r _elationship_ with John. You help him with his homework, and he gives you a good shag in return?’

Sherlock keeps his expression the same. Tries to, at least. He hopes his horror doesn’t bleed through. “John and I are friends, that’s it.”

“Funny, he made me say that last time too.”

 

It takes a moment for the sentence to hit, another moment for Sherlock to understand what he means.

 

He can tell he’s reacting exactly in the way Aubrey has hoped- the mocking smile aimed at him is indication enough. Sherlock can practically hear the blood rushing in his ears. His gut feels cold, like he’s swallowed an entire block of ice.

“Wha-” he swallows. Shakes his head. “What do you mean?” _Don’t be stupid,_ he thinks. _Don’t make him spell it out._

“Don’t pretend like you can’t tell,” he scoffs. Aubrey walks closer to him, making him step backward until his back hits the shelf. His eyes flick downwards, then drag back slowly upwards, like he’s cataloguing Sherlock. He doesn’t seem to be too happy with what he sees.

“You’re his type,” he drawls. He’s barely an inch shorter than him, built the same way- how could Sherlock not have noticed this before. His feelings for John have been making him slower than usual. Suddenly it’s more than easy to imagine them together- Alexis Aubrey, petite, slender, with his French lilt and his pale hair and eyes- suddenly Sherlock starts noticing these things. John’s arms around him or his lips on his- the image burns itself behind his eyes with no intention of going away. “Thin. Different. Exotic, we could call it. Easy to push around. Can you speak French? He used to make me speak French sometimes. Once in this library. Once in his bed.”

“I don’t- I don’t know why you’re telling me this,” Sherlock chokes out, trying to push him away. A part of him is morbidly fascinated with what he’s being told. What else have they done together, he wonders. Wasn’t it this morning, when they’d snogged behind that painting of that hag on the fifth floor- and John had giggled, whispering, “Well, this is a first,” against his neck. A first, really? Was it?

“Yeah, me neither,” Aubrey sneers. “Doesn’t matter, he’ll drop you like he dropped me and find someone else. Don’t worry, I won’t tell. I promised him I wouldn’t.”

“John and I aren’t together,” he insists. It gets more difficult to spit out the words.

“Please,” Aubrey steps back from him, looks at him up and down again, this time his gaze more heated. “He’s been fucking you, and I know it. Can’t blame him, you really are a sweet piece of arse. Oh, don’t look at me like that, _I’m_ not interested in shagging a bony slut.” He laughs- cruel and sarcastic. “Don’t do it in his bed though, if you do it too roughly it squeaks. Sometimes John gets carried away, you know?”

Sherlock has no idea what his face looks like, is only aware of the envy burning hot and violent in his gut. Aubrey smirks at him, obviously satisfied with the reaction. He should say something. Something just as hurtful, just as mean. But his lips seem to glued shut. Aubrey doesn’t wait for him to think of a response. Leaves, and takes the book with him.

 

Sherlock can feel the earth spinning- and not in a good way. More like when he hasn’t eaten anything for two days and his blood sugar is dangerously low and he’s about to faint. He grabs the edge of the shelf for support, trying to blink out the vicious images swimming in front of his face.

He has a sudden urge to curl up on the library floor and cry. Maybe that’s what he’s been bottling up for so long. Maybe if he sits down and sobs his heart out he’ll feel better.

 

_John get carried away sometimes, you know?_

_._

Is he surprised? Should he be surprised? He had figured it out anyway, and now he has an answer, a confirmation. Aubrey is definitely not lying- Sherlock would have been able to read it.

Does it matter, though? John’s earlier...partners. He’s never had such a visceral reaction to the girls he’s been with, why this, now?

 

Sherlock knows the answer, just doesn’t want to admit it to himself.

 

Maybe he should end this now, before he’s in too deep…?

 

Bollocks. He’s already in too deep.

 

Ending his relationship with John Watson would end this feeling of having his own heart ripped out: true or false?

 

False, he decides. It would only make it worse.

 

He makes a new room in his Mind Palace. Iron, unbreakable. He puts Aubrey into it and locks the door. Password protected. Let him rot there.

 

And John? Sherlock shuts his eyes. Sherlock loves him. There’s no two ways about it. John with his steady, calloused hands and the rough edge of his voice when he’s aroused and careful way he holds Sherlock close, John with his constant worry about his sister and his passion for Quiddich, he loves it all and there was really was no point denying it, was there?

 

So John has shagged another boy in his bed. And various other parts of the castle, if Aubrey is to be believed. Well, he’s shagging Sherlock now. Well, not really _shagging,_ if they’re being technical- the thought of penetrative sex still makes him terrified and infinitely curious in equal measure. He knows John wants to- can see it in his eyes and the way he thrusts between Sherlock’s legs like he wishes he was inside of him-

 

Aubrey and John had sex. Suddenly Sherlock feels enormously inadequate. Aubrey let John do something Sherlock hasn’t yet- should he-

Only John would be tedious and keep asking Sherlock if he really wanted to, and Sherlock isn’t a very good liar.

Doubt creeps in slowly, like an illness.

But John would never- he can’t imagine it. He hasn’t displayed that sort of interest in anyone else except Sherlock since they stumbled into their relationship. Even though they’ve never spoken about it, Sherlock had always assumed it was implied- monogamy.

 

He’s enough, though, isn’t he? Sherlock thinks of pretty girls, _normal_ girls, and Aubrey who moves with the grace of a gazelle and he doesn’t feel so sure.

 

***

 

John can tell something is wrong as soon as he sees Sherlock. He can see it on his face. They meet in a tiny room behind a portrait of an old knight- the ceiling is slanted and there's a broom leaning against the wall. It's a tight fit, but it's safe. The knight has been keeping their secret for weeks.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, kissing him on the cheek once he’s close enough.

“You-” John blinks to distract himself from Sherlock’s hot breath against his ear. “You look upset. What’s wrong?”

Sherlock frowns. “Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. Why do you ask.”

“You’re lying,” John holds his chin with his thumb and forefinger and forces Sherlock to look at him. “Did someone say something to you?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot, you know I’m more than capable of holding my own in a fight.”

“Sherlock that’s not--” he shakes his head. “Why don’t you tell me when something is bothering you?”

He doesn’t mean it the way it comes out- pleading and demanding all at once. Sherlock raises his eyebrows, silver eyes surprised.

“John, I- I always tell you,” he insists. Something about the way he says it irks at him.

John slides a hand up his arm and behind his neck. Sherlock's scarf hangs loosely around his neck; sometimes he wears it inside the castle as well. He gives it a tug, makes it fall.

“Not always,” John counters.

Sherlock sighs, warm breath against his skin, and wraps his arms around John. He bends a little to bury his face in the crook of his neck. John holds him, worried.

“If you had something to say to me,” Sherlock murmurs, his voice muffled against his shoulder. “Would you tell me?”

John’s answer is automatic. “Of course I would.”

“If you- If you thought it was important, and I had a right to know, that it was _important_ for me to know, you would tell me?”

“Sherlock, babe, what are you on about?” John rubs his hand up and down his back. Sherlock clutches at him tighter.

“Nothing,” he hears him say. “I just- I just really- like you, is all.”

Which is  a very un-Sherlock like thing to say. Not that Sherlock isn’t affectionate or emotional when he wants to be- only that it’s the kind of vague statement he makes when he means to say something entirely different.

“Sherlock, I like you too, but- you sound upset, love, what happened? Please tell me.”

John tries to lift Sherlock’s face back from against his jumper. Sherlock looks disgruntled at not being allowed to cuddle.

“John, everything is fine,” he huffs. “Now shut up and let me kiss you.”  
“Yeah, alright, but--”

Sherlock steals the words out of his mouth by kissing him. For someone with little to no experience before he was with John- Sherlock is a surprisingly good kisser. John has a feeling he catalogues his reactions _while_ kissing him, which makes the entire thing about a hundred times hotter.

Sherlock pushes him against the nearest wall, pinning John there with his hips. Perhaps the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest aren’t the smartest place to snog, but John can’t even pay attention anything else except Sherlock’s hot, wet, eager mouth against his.

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock whispers against his mouth, rolling his hips gently against John’s crotch.

“I’m- I’m not,” John answers honestly, gasping when Sherlock moves on to his neck. He can feel Sherlock’s length hardening against his thigh, and he cants his hips forward, rubbing himself against him.

Sherlock pins John’s earlobe between his teeth, moves his hand between them to run his fingers softly down the hard ridge in his pants.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers. “I’ll do anything you want.”

The words sound distinctly un-Sherlock. Sherlock with his blushing uncertainty and _Am I doing this right?-_ John isn’t sure why it seems a little wrong to his ears. Still, Sherlock is fondling him through his trousers and he’s incapable of concentrating on so many things at once.

“Anything,” he decides, with difficulty. “Anything at all.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock ponders. “I’ve never sucked your cock before. Would you like that?”

 

_Would he like that?_

He’d fucking- he’d fucking worship Sherlock if he put his mouth on his cock. “You d-don’t have to,” he stammers instead.

“No,” Sherlock drawls. “But I _want_ to. You’ve been wanting me on my knees for a while- yes or no?”

Sherlock had been upset less than five minutes ago- and now he was offering John a blowjob? Something was-

“ _Fuck, yes,”_ he finds himself saying, as Sherlock catches John bottom lip between his teeth.

“I don’t mind being on my knees for you, John,” Sherlock says silkily, and gracefully kneels in front of him. John has an odd feeling this is one of his old fantasies. “Now ask me for it.”  
“W-what?”

“Say you want it.”

“I- I want it?”

Sherlock leans forward, mouth John’s cock through his trousers. John makes an embarrassing noise. “Say you want me to suck your cock.”

This- This is definitely one of his older pornographic fantasies. Sherlock, on his knees, teasing and infinitely sexy, begging to have John’s _big, fat prick_ down his throat-

“No, actually,” Sherlock changes his mind, breathes against his clothed crotch. “Tell me. You’ve been wanting to, so say it.”

“I- want you to suck my cock,” John manages, and Sherlock looks up at him, smirking. John will undoubtedly have that image seared into his brain till the day he dies. Fantasy is one thing, Sherlock _actually_ on his knees with his mouth hovering inches from his crotch is quite another.

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Sherlock replies smoothly, and his spidery fingers move to the button on his trousers.

“Sherlock, you’ve never-”

“I’ll learn,” Sherlock assures him hastily, and some of his uncertainty bleeds through his tone. John has a sudden urge to pick Sherlock up and push him against the wall and kiss him instead, but then Sherlock’s hands are on his prick, drawing him out of his trousers, hot breath ghosting over the skin.

“I know the basics,” he says, holding his cock steady with a hand around the base. Sherlock lips part, he looks up at him from underneath his lashes, and then wraps his mouth around the tip of his cock. John groans, immediately pushing in. Sherlock makes a surprised nose that sounds an awful lot like choking so he pulls back immediately, but there’s a hand on his arse pushing him back in.

John risks a look down and Sherlock’s cheeks are already flushed, his eyes wide and dark. He can only take in John’s prick midlength and even that seems to be slightly difficult for him. If only Sherlock would- then maybe John would be physically able to pull his dick out of his mouth- but then Sherlock gives an experimental suck and-

“Oh, oh _fuck,_ Sherlock, oh-”

Sherlock’s mouth is messy and inexperienced, but he makes up for it with enthusiasm, and his clever fingers. Not to mention the way he closes his eyes and moans around his cock like it’s the most delicious thing he’s tasted. He curls his tongue around the base and John gasps, shoving himself down Sherlock’s throat. He feels Sherlock spasm around him, tears leaking and running down his face. John feels guilty with the way his cock twitches in Sherlock’s mouth at the sight of him like that, but he can’t help it.

Sherlock pulls his lips off John’s cock for a second, mouth pink and swollen, a string of saliva still connecting him to the tip. “Do you like it?” he asks, voice husky and raspy. John knows why he sounds like that and he must have been too rough, but Sherlock’s fucking _face,_ pre come down his chin and hair sticking to his temples- is not helping him to be more considerate.

“It’s perfect,” he breathes, and Sherlock smirks again, taking him into his mouth once more. This time he gags, and John pulls back in alarm, but Sherlock growls, glaring up at him and working through the discomfort. John’s hand, balled up at his side, is guided to Sherlock’s hair, which he instinctively twines through his fingers. John wants to tug on those curls and push himself in deeper- fuck Sherlock’s mouth until he’s gagging-

_Fuck,_ he’s probably be doing that in a minute if he doesn’t rein himself in. His hips tremble as he tries to still the selfish thrusting.

Sherlock looks perfect on his knees, better than anything John could have fantasized about, and when Sherlock touches himself through his trousers, rolling his hips roughly against his own hand John almost loses it.

“Sherl- _oh, god-_

Sherlock can’t obviously concentrate on getting himself off, as he’s too busy trying to take the entire length of John into his mouth.

John has a hard time believing Sherlock has never sucked cock before, not if he’s this good on his first time. In fact, Sherlock is phenomenal. This is possibly the best blow job John has ever received in his life.

“Sherlock, fuck-” he gasps out. “I don’t want to-” he doesn’t want to come in his mouth on their first time, but Sherlock seems to have other ideas.

He rises higher on his knees, dark hair against his pale skin and red cheeks, cups his hands around John’s hips and pulls him in harder- Sherlock is practically _deep throating_ him- and- fuck.He spills into Sherlock’s mouth with a groan and Sherlock hangs on until he can’t, coughing as he pulls away- and John’s come hits his chin and his chest instead.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he croaks, spots dancing in front of his eyes.

When his head stops spinning he looks down and Sherlock is curled over himself, still spluttering slightly, hand curled over his mouth as he tries to wipe off John’s ejaculate. John immediately feels guilty, and gets down on his knees.

“Come here,” he says, and brushes his hand over Sherlock’s lips before pulling him closer and kissing him, tasting himself.

He chances a glance towards Sherlock’s crotch and finds the telltale bulge. “Turn around,” he says.

Sherlock looks filthy, his big eyes and his red mouth, tear tracks still drying down his cheeks. Something animalistic rears it’s head in John’s chest, as if he’s just stamped his name over Sherlock’s body. Sherlock probably catches the glint of it in his eyes, and his cheeks flush deeper, bottom lip pinned under his teeth.

“John-”

“I said turn around,” he says, rougher, and spins Sherlock around himself, jerks him into his lap, between his spread legs.

“John, you don’t have to-”

“I want to,” John assures him, against his ear, and Sherlock, boneless, sags back against him with a sigh, head leaning against his shoulder. John wraps an arm around his waist, mouths at the side of his neck. His cock, soft and still slightly wet, rubs against the back of Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed, he moans softly as John runs his hand down his chest and cups him over his trousers.

“John,” he breathes, hips canting forward against John’s palm.

“You’re so gorgeous, what a good boy,” John replies roughly, and pulls down Sherlock’s trousers and pants around his thighs. Sherlock can barely do anything but lift his hips to facilitate easier access, and John takes the opportunity to smooth his hand over Sherlock’s plump arse before moving to his cock.

“John, please,” Sherlock murmurs. John wraps a hand around his prick and jerks him off, fast and rough like he knows Sherlock likes it.

“Fuck, oh _Merlin-”_

John bites hard at the junction of his neck and shoulder, and holds a hand over Sherlock’s mouth when he comes, breathless, back arching against him, spilling all over John’s fingers.

Sherlock falls, limp and panting, legs still spread lewdly.

“So, where did you learn to suck cock like that?” John asks after a while, nipping Sherlock’s ear.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock replies lazily. “Jealous?”

“No,” John says uncertainly, using his wand to dry Sherlock off. Sherlock continues to doze against his shoulder. “Should I be?”

“I used my fingers,” Sherlock drawls, flipping over and kneeling between Joh leg’s, pulling his pants up. “Shoved them into my mouth to see how my gag reflex worked. A miscaculation, of course. Your penis is not only significantly larger than average, but also quite incomparable to my fingers.”

John’s prick twitches.

Sherlock notices, one dark eyebrow raised heavenward. “Another go already, John? Then maybe I shouldn’t tell you where else I’ve put my fingers. Or perhaps it was the fact that it was my appreciation for the size of your cock. Which one?”

John’s closes his eyes, silently praying for strength. “You’re a bad, bad man,” he whispers. He can feel Sherlock lean in close to him and kiss him on the corner of his mouth, palms resting against John’s thighs.

“A bad man who just had your prick in his mouth,” he points out. “ Your very _large_ prick. If you’re lucky I might let you put it somewhere else.”

 

Which...distinctly does not sound like Sherlock. In fact Sherlock has been sounding not quite himself for a while now. Undeniably sexy, but not- not his Sherlock.

John opens his eyes to see Sherlock smiling crookedly at him, and while he looks breathlessly beautiful as he always does- the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He puts a palm against Sherlock’s cheek, thumb resting against the crest of a cheekbone.

“Is everything alright?’

“John, I just gave you a blowjob to get you to shut up about it and now you’ve asked me a _gain._ ”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and for a moment John is caught by the slow movement of his pupils. He watches Sherlock get up with a huff, turning around and stretching like a cat. Sherlock’s lithe muscles roll underneath his shirt and John is transfixed by the sheer, delicate _beauty_ of Sherlock’s frame.

“I just- you seem different,” he answers.

Sherlock pulls on his jumper. “I’m not different.”

John stands up, tucking his shirt into his trousers and watches Sherlock run a hand through his curls to straighten them. It doesn’t help. He raises an eyebrow at John, as if he’s waiting for John to contradict him. John would, if he wasn’t sure that Sherlock would just tell him to shut up.

“Sherlock, you know you don’t have to-” he swallows. Why is this so difficult? “You know you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, right? I’m not- we’re never doing anything unless you want to.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him, and John immediately want to take it back.

“Why are you so sure I don’t know what I want, John?” Sherlock cocks his head at him, his voice lined with thinly veiled disapproval.

“I didn’t-”

“I never do anything I don’t want to,” he continues. He takes a step towards John and for a moment he wonders if Sherlock is going to punch him. He’d deserve it, Sherlock hates it when he’s patronizing. But instead he stops in his tracks, shuts his eyes and exhales.

John doesn’t know what possesses him in that moment, only that Sherlock looks unhappy in a way he is not used to, in a way he never wants to see him. He closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around his waist, crushes Sherlock against him like he can’t fathom the idea of letting go. And he can’t.

Sherlock’s body is still at first, but then he softens, curls himself over John until his face is buried in his neck.

“I just, sometimes I think I’m not enough,” he mumbles.

“Don’t be daft,” John scolds. “You’re enough. More than enough. You’re everything.”

 

_I love you,_ he almost says, but stops before he ruins everything. He’s already said too much.

 

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock replies.

 

It almost feels like Sherlock is saying something else, but John doesn’t push.

 

***

It almost isn't surprising, when it happens.

When someone grabs him roughly from behind and pulls him into the nearest classroom, the first thing he thinks is, _I should have known._

Before he can utter a spell or reach for his wand, whoever it is wrenches his arm behind his back an shoves his face first into a wall. His hand clamps tightly around his mouth. Sherlock can't think through the pain, and he only known some non verbal spells. He struggles, violently trying to twist out of his grasp, but he's only held tighter, shoved harder against the wall. There's a nail that catches in his trousers.

"Close the door, you idiot."

Aubrey's musical voice floats over from somewhere in the corner, and he sounds like he always does: bored. Sounds a bit like himself, come to think of it. He shoves the thought out of his mind.

"You close it," the person holding him like a vice says. "He'll slip out of here in a second." To emphasize his point he rears Sherlock back only to push his body against the wood. Sherlock stills, piecing the picture together. _Of course._

"If he wanted to, he would have already. He knows non verbal magic, you know. Maybe he likes the position." Sherlock hears the door shut. Someone snickers.

"Fucking fag," his captor says, voice dripping with disgust, and lets go of him. Sherlock stumbles, breathes for a second with his palm against the wall, before turning around. He eyes the people in front of him: Aubrey, two cronies. He's fucking one of them. He recognizes them both: Tyrion from Slytherin, the other one is from Ravenclaw. Ashley something.

"Alright, let's get this over with quickly," Sherlock says.. "What do you want?" He checks his back pocket. No wand. Ashley smirks, holding up his wand. Presumably this is the one Aubrey has had sex with. In any case, he feels vulnerable without his wand. He's not that good with non verbal magic, and it takes a lot of energy out of him

"Should I break it?" Ashley asks. "It'd be fun."

"Not yet," Aubrey says smoothly.  Sherlock looks at him. Aubrey's eyes are red rimmed, his lips dry. He looks like he's been crying. Before he can think of something to say, he's suddenly closer to him, and in a quick movement, grabs him by the shoulders and knees him in the stomach. Sherlock gasps, knees buckling, but Aubrey pushes him back into the wall instead.

For the first time, Sherlock fears a trickle of fear run down the back of his neck. He doesn't like the way Ashley is looking at him, the smirk on his face makes him uncomfortable, and Aubrey doesn't look as amused as he had been during their library meet.

"I don't understand what makes you so fucking special," he seethes, and grabs him by the hair. "Is it because you're smart? Pretty? What? He doesn't do it for so long. I-"

The hisses, drawing his hands back. They're red, steaming. A stinging hex, one of the few spells Sherlock can do non verbally. He begins to make a movement towards the door, but the blonde haired boy is too quick, aims his wand at his feet and Sherlock falls to the floor, his legs locked together. His nose starts bleeding, pain blossoming across his mouth.

Aubrey makes a furious sound, and kicks him in the stomach. Sherlock curls in on himself. "Stop- what do you want-" he says between breaths, but Aubrey just kicks him again.

He starts thinking of something else, some other spell- but it's no use. He's in too much pain. And when Ashley murmurs the first spell of the Cruciatus curse he seizes up in panic.

There's a sickening flash of pain in his body before Aubrey says, "Stop."

"What? I thought you wanted me to," Ashley complains. Sherlock is gasping, sweat has already started dripping down his face. He couldn't even stand a second of that. Blood rushes in his ears.

"Stop being stupid and pick him up. My hands hurt."

Sherlock feels hands on his waist, too low for his taste, and then he's up against the wall again. Ashley keeps smirking at him, fingers digging into the hollow of his waist. "Can I-".

"No," Aubrey snaps. "Get your hands off him, you pervert."

Even in the midst of his situation, Sherlock wonders how Tyrion hasn't yet understand that two of his friends have fucked before in the past. It must be so peaceful, being stupid.

"I'll get to the point quickly," Aubrey says, smiling. "You're already bleeding."

"Really? I hadn't noticed," Sherlock says, and Ashley punches him.

Sherlock coughs, and some blood drops to the ground. His ribs hurt. His chest hurts. There's blood dripping down his nose and mouth. He shouldn't have left his room so late at night. He just wanted to read something, the book he had wasn't distracting him enough.

"Okay," he answered tiredly, all fight draining out of him suddenly. He's so exhausted. So when Ashley wraps a hand around his throat, he doesn't even try hexing him again.

"Break up with him," Aubrey says, voice shaking. He has a wand pointed at Sherlock's chest.

So that's what this is about. He had no idea Aubrey still felt so strongly for John. Sherlock closes his eyes. "No," he says softly.

"What did you say?" Aubrey narrows his eyes, moves in closer, the wand trembling in his grip. Ashley takes the cue, starts squeezing lightly. It could almost be sexual, the way his eyed darken at the flush that rises in Sherlock's cheeks.

"I said no," Sherlock repeats.

"Hit him," Aubrey hisses. This time the other boy comes, mutters something under his breath. A cut opens up in Sherlock's thigh, red starts bleeding through his pyjamas. Sherlock pins his lips under his teeth to stop the moan of pain. He screws his eyes shut tightly.

"You're being ridiculous," he spits out.   
"I don't want to listen how _ridiculous_ you think I am, you whore. Just break up with him." This time Aubrey pushes both his friends out of the way and grabs the front of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock can see his eyes up close, the twisted scowl of his mouth, and Sherlock can tell he is in _pain,_ and it's so unfair because he had his chance, and it's over and oh god what if this is him in a year? Do people actually go insane when someone the love leaves them? Does Aubrey love John?

"Please," he finally says.

"I can't. Get off me."

"What's going on?" Tyrion says. His wand is till raised, but he seems to be rethinking his actions. "break up with who?"

Aubrey ignores him and continues to glare at Sherlock. "I could hurt you really badly," he sneers.

"So could I," Sherlock replies, and snaps his fingers. It takes the breath away from him, but he manages to push Aubrey off himself. He doesn't seem to like it, and Ashley doesn't either, which is why he shouts something and Sherlock feels like something heavy and blunt has been thrown at his face. It's just a spell, but he can feel a bruise already forming on his cheekbone, over the one of them had made with his punch, he can't remember which. It also knocks him down on his arse.

He catches Aubrey wiping his eye with the back of his hand. For a moment, all four of them are still. Suddenly, he turns around and visciously snatches Sherlock's wand out of Ashley's hand, and throws it at his feet.

"I hope he dumps your fucking ass," he spits. "And I hope he fucks you before he does."

Sherlock looks up, meeting his gaze. "It won't help," he answers quietly. "And it won't help you feel better."

"Be a man and pick up that wand to hex me," Aubrey replies, lip curling. "I don't need your bloody pity. "

Sherlock picks up the wand, lets it roll slightly over his palm, from finger to wrist. He decides against hexing him, instead curls his fingers around the wood and uses it to sew his pyjamas shut instead.

"Are we done here?" he asks.

Aubrey is still staring at him like he wants to murder him. Ashley leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Tyrion seems to have left.

"Screw you," Aubrey says heavily, and grabs Ashleys' wrist. "Let's get out of here."  


Once they're gone, Sherlock feels the strength leave his body a second time. He falls back against the floor, eyes on the ceiling.  His wand slips from his palm and rolls some distance away, but the thought of actually getting up to retrieve it makes him feel ill. His face is on fire, but he's never been very good with healing spells anyway. He'll have to ask Victor to help him.

This is becoming a problem, he thinks. He holds his hands up- like he'd expected, the stinging hex was too strong and now his knuckles are bleeding from the effort. He should just tell John- and John could handle it. But the sickening scenario starts building up in his mind: Aubrey on his knees begging John to take him back, and John, overcome by guilt, picking him up and embracing- _kissing_ him- no. Better to not drag John back into this. He should get up and leave- someone might find him here and he'll get in trouble. He gets up, stumbles and falls. Tries again. Somehow he finally makes it to the door and casts a Disillusionment Charm on himself.

Everyone in the Common Room is asleep. He curls into bed, pulls the covers over on top of him. He thinks his nose is broken- but he'll check it tomorrow morning. He doesn't notice he's crying until the salt in his tears stings the cut on his mouth. He wipes it off angrily. He has to force himself to go to sleep.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMUT coming up in the next chapter. Ratings will, of course, go up. As will angst. And there is some inkling of a plot, what do ya know?


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